Call of the Dragonbonded_Book of Fire_The Dragonbonded Return

by JD Hart

  Pushing through the hinged doors and scanning the crowded tavern brought a relieved smile to Conner. Weaving carefully through the room bustling with people and their bonds, he came to a small table in the back where a young man with long blond hair sat intently studying a book and making cursive notes on yellow parchment. A tiger-striped feline sat next to him, intently watching the wispy end of his quill pen.

  “So you still have to write down everything to remember what you’re studying?”

  Jess looked up, puzzled by the interruption; then the pen fell from his hand. “Most of us can’t remember everything we see and hear,” the man quipped. He rose, grasping Conner’s outstretched hand with ink-stained fingers. A smile overlaid his otherwise tired expression. “My, but it is good to see a familiar face, and so far from home.” He waved at a vacant chair at the table and gave Conner a slight but teasing bow. “Sit, Apprentice Stonefield. Let me buy you dinner. It is the least I can do for someone who just lightened my weary day.”

  Conner disguised his smile with a smirk and returned the teasing bow. “Then I accept your offer, Student Tandoor, for I do believe you buying me dinner will lighten my weary day as well.” By the time he was seated, a young woman with delicate features on a porcelain complexion appeared next to the table, her arm casually draped over Jess’s shoulder as she examined the new arrival. A large crow with glassy, ebony eyes perched on her shoulder.

  Jess hooked his arm around the woman’s waist and waved at his new companion with his other. “Tara, this is my dear friend Conner Stonefield, arriving just tonight from the Eastlands. I would be most grateful if you would treat us each to a bowl of your mother’s delicious stew and your father’s finest ale.”

  Tara, quite comfortable with Jess’s arm around her, curtseyed to Conner. Her cheeks reddened. “I will personally ensure that the ale arrives as cold as the stew does hot, dear Conner.” She moved lithely away, though her eyes stayed on Conner’s until she was out of view.

  Jess closed the forgotten book and pushed it to the side, watching Tara slip through the bustling tavern. “She is truly a wondrous lass,” he sighed.

  “As I recall, you thought that about all the lasses in Linkenton Point.” Conner was rewarded with a hurt look that made him laugh. Formerly from Linkenton Point, fifteen miles east of Creeg’s Point, Jess was the only son of a Cartwright guildsman who made wagons and carts for many Eastland farmers and townsmen. Jess’s suave style, handsome face, and lavish guildsman way of life made most of the young ladies’ heads turn, much to the chagrin of their protective parents. At sixteen, Jess’s father sent him to live for the summer with his aunt in Creeg’s Point. By fall, when he received his Calling, even that quiet community was unsafe from Jess’s charm.

  Conner was in the midst of teasing Jess over whether he would be asked to leave Pennington Point before he had his living arrangements settled when Tara returned with a tray of cool mugs, steaming bowls of thick stew, hot bread, and melted garlic butter. The smell of freshly cooked vegetables, Grenetian spices, and black pepper captured all of Conner’s attention. For the moment, the two ate in silent ecstasy.

  Annabelle shook her head sadly at her comrade across the corner table while Peron watched with disinterest from above. There was no doubt that the desire for a Ranger’s life webbed deep into the princess’s spirit. She possessed a natural elemental talent the preceptor had never seen, even in a watcher. And the girl’s passion to learn and live the ways of the order was as unbreakable as the Warder’s Stone. But a Ranger was more than all these things. The true strength of a Ranger was measured by fortitude of character and willingness to cooperate with others, things Veressa’s life of royalty had failed to bestow upon her. But mostly, a Ranger needed to be able to drink a mug of ale without becoming hopelessly intoxicated. Her lips tilted upward. Unfortunately, the Cosmos had seen to it that the girl lacked this quality as well.

  Annabelle leaned forward so she would not have to shout above the tavern noise. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink, Caralynn?” She emphasized the name again to remind the princess they were not supposed to draw attention.

  Veressa broke from a raucous chorus of “Whose Pants Am I Wearing” and shot her preceptor a strange look. “You thaid we should act like two traveling orde’men.” She eyed the half-empty mug with a confused look. “Bethides, thith is my firtht mug. No need to be unhappy because I am thtarting to enjoy mythelf. Thtop being my protective older thister for once and relacth.” She waved at her preceptor as if shooing away a pesky insect. Something struck Veressa as funny, but when she leaned forward, she wore a serious expression. “You’re just cranky becauth mom alwayth loved me more than you.” This set the princess into a guffaw, nearly doubling over with tears rolling down her cheeks. Luckily, her laughter ended before the last howling words of the song.

  Annabelle’s cheeks burned at the princess’s last comment, but she was not going to let the girl dig under her skin, especially here and now. The Ranger gingerly removed the mug from Veressa’s hand. “I am going to enjoy watching you deal with the headache you will have in the morning.” But before she could continue, someone started singing the Narwalen ballad “Riders of the Order.” The man’s melodic tenor floated through the tavern. A somber hush fell over the crowd. Soon, others joined in the ballad, and it grew into a crescendo marking its final words.

  In the time of the breaking

  And war ruled the lands,

  Elvenstein’s Darmascus did fall.

  So a pact in the making

  Was sealed by the hands

  Of the mysterious ones heeding our call.

  Hail to beasts whose bonds you did find,

  Hail to the castles that hid your ways,

  Though your secrets died with the last of your kind

  You won our freedom for all days.

  Take care as you sail

  Into the morning sun,

  Turning our teal skies to black.

  We’ll always prevail

  If we remember the ones

  Who rode on dragons’ back.

  Hail to the winds that carried you away

  Hail to the mountains that now stand alone,

  For bringing us peace, but in our dismay

  Will not see you safely back home.

  Heroes of the Order,

  Heralds of old,

  Just where did your days so wing?

  A battle o’er the border

  As omens foretold.

  It is for you we now sing.

  So let’s raise our mug in good spirit,

  Let’s raise our glass in good cheer,

  And drink to the intrepid spirits

  For those the dragons held dear.

  As if everyone had practiced the act a hundred times, each lifted their mug or glass high, then drank deep from each. Knowing it undignified for Annabelle to stop her, Veressa reached across the table and, with a smug expression, stole back her ale. Tilting her head in imitation of the best Moorestone friar, the princess gulped the entire remains, then wiped foam from smiling lips with the back of her hand.

  Yes. I am going to enjoy watching her deal with this tomorrow, Annabelle thought as the noise and chaos returned to the tavern.

  Bargo’s eye twitched with growing impatience. A few people shifted in response to give him even more space. He stared at the door with a dark expression, ignoring the songs and ruckus while drumming fingers on the table noticeably void of drink. What is that imbecile doing? Can’t he even handle a simple instruction? He leaned forward and glanced at the two Rangers under eyebrows that hid another tick. The two would be leaving soon, and he wanted to be fully prepared to throw them a reception party before they departed.

  Just as the insufferable crowd finished their rendition of “Riders of the Order,” the door swung open and the lanky Sorcerer stepped through. The charlatan glanced about nervously as he edged through a crowd of standing patrons. Giving the big man at the table a winning smile, he took the othe
r chair no one else had the fortitude to secure.

  It was all Bargo could do not to reach across and snap the thin man’s neck. He fought back another tick with a snarl. Lest’s smile evaporated. “Did yer do what I asked?”

  The pretend Sorcerer continued to scan those about them. He leaned closer, his mouse bond occasionally peeking timidly from under his bright blue robes. “I found three capable young men quite willing to do whatever is necessary.” Reading Bargo’s thoughts, he elaborated, “With discretion. They wait up the street for your orders.”

  Bargo got up with a nimbleness contradicting his size and inebriation. Thumbing his ax, he said, “Then let’s be on our way. I want our prize properly packaged and stowed before anyone is the wiser.” He stepped past Lest with zeal for the work afoot. The swiftly parting sea of people and bonds afforded Bargo the space he needed to swagger his way to the tavern door.

  The two Eastlanders began the lengthy task of getting caught up on two years of busy life whenever their mouths were not filled with bites of chunky, hot stew and buttered bread dipped in gravy. For the first time since receiving the Calling, Conner laughed and joked until tears ran down his cheeks. Tara visited their table often for no other excuse than to ensure everything was fine and to give Conner a pleasant smile, earning them scowls from those at nearby tables who felt neglected. Neither man cared, for the world had stopped revolving for a few precious hours. Conner took in the breath of life—connecting with a dear, trusted friend.

  Jess asked about Conner’s family, and Conner laughed at the guildsman’s blushing response when he mentioned that Miyra, now fourteen, still asked about him. Jess quickly diverted the discussion to Master Cleaverbrook while ignoring Conner’s teasing, going into some detail about their preceptor’s teaching style. “He won’t tell you anything until you ask, Conner, unless it is to hide vital information in the middle of what you think is simple, unimportant talk. So keep your wits about you at all times.” He shook his head at the memory. “And he won’t proceed to the next phase of your training until you have every minuscule fact he’s given you accessible at a moment’s notice.”

  This was the opportunity Conner had been waiting for. “Jess, I need to find a certain Shaman. I am hoping you can help me.”

  Jess noticed the shift in the younger man’s demeanor, piquing his interest. “Who would that be?”

  “His name is Grandmaster Grimmley Rollingsworth.”

  Jess whistled in amazement. “Conner, Grandmaster Shaman Rollingsworth isn’t any certain Shaman, you know. He may be the most brilliant Shaman in several generations.” He leaned forward to tell Conner a little-known secret. “I heard he rejected a position on the Shamans council,” he whispered, eyes wide. “No one has ever turned down becoming a Don, but apparently he did.” He glanced about the nearby tables to be sure no one had overheard. “Who would be crazy enough to anger the Board of Dons by turning down such a position?”

  Conner felt pangs of uncertainty about his plan.

  Jess leaned even closer, his shirt nearly in his bowl of cooling stew. “I met him once, you know.” He sat back and nodded as if what he had seen was proof of the old Shaman’s dementia, then wiped at the gravy spot on his shirt. “I had to go with Master Cleaverbrook to get some very rare and expensive herbs for the cow sickness that struck a year back. Rollingsworth gave the herbs to the guildmaster. And judging by the small cottage he lives in, the Shaman could have used the money to fix it up. To be honest, I don’t think I would willingly go within a mile of the old man.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I have a choice. At least I won’t be alone.” He hesitated, not wanting to say so much he would need an hour to explain, but neither did he want Jess to be unnecessarily suspicious. “So how do I find him?”

  The student shook his head. “You always were a bit crazy, Conner, but if that is your wish,” he continued with resignation. “His cottage is in a valley between some hills twenty miles west of Kallzwall Castle, halfway between the mountains to the north and the Queen’s Highway to the south. If you find a large series of groves containing every type of tree in the known world, you’ll find his cottage in its midst. Just take care. The old Shaman treats those trees like they were his children.”

  A hush through the tavern drew the two from their discussion, a tenor voice singing the ballad “Riders of the Order.” The words were clear and in perfect pitch. Conner stiffened. Others joined in, until the entire tavern was a chorus of voices in anthem to the legends. He cringed at the words and slumped in his chair. It was as if the crowd was heaping each weighted line of the song upon his shoulders, denouncing him for his plans, crushing him with their honored lament for the old order, until he could hardly breathe.

  Conner jerked his head toward the crowd in the middle of the tavern, peering through the mugs raised in silent honor to the Dragonbonded. People and bonds milled about everywhere. He wiped at beads of sweat burning his eyes, then blinked away the sting in hopes of catching sight of the singer. Instead, his eyes fell upon the thin Sorcerer he had encountered earlier in the street. He jerked back around and slumped farther forward, hoping the man had not seen him.

  “Are you all right, Conner? You look like you’ve seen a phantom.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just not used to the strong Narwalen ale.” He hefted his mug to his worried friend and took a sip with a wink.

  Jess relaxed at the false gesture. “I swear I think you spent too much time around Pauli. I would be half crazy if I had to deal with his continuous string of antics. How is that wily would-be fighter, anyway?”

  Conner was grateful for the change of subject and began to impart a few of the many recent sordid stories about Pauli, pausing to let Jess finish a hearty laugh or wipe tears from his eyes. As he talked, he watched the Sorcerer approach a lone, burly fighter on the opposite side of the room. While the two men chatted, the fighter kept glancing toward a dark corner where two Rangers sat drinking and looking like they wanted to be left alone.

  He considered the Sorcerer’s invitation. Surely the men did not intend on mugging ordermen. That was pure foolhardiness, even if one was well beyond being a bit tipsy. Then he recalled how the Thieves Guild in Cravenrock had obtained the location of the magical scroll he had stolen. What if the two Rangers were couriers? A little muscle could be worth the cost for what the Sorcerer had called minimal risk.

  Conner shook the thought away. He did not like the Sorcerer, and was certain he would like the burly man with him even less. Whatever the two men were planning, it was surely unsavory. But that was no reason to get involved. The two Rangers could handle themselves.

  A few of Jess’s words drew his attention. “You were always there to drag Pauli feet first out of the fire.” Jess winked slyly at Conner. “No doubt, that oversize fox has dug himself into all kinds of chicken-coop mischief since you have been away.” The student swallowed a chunk of stew as he contemplated the words forming in his head, then wagged his spoon toward Conner. “You know, Conner, while you clearly have the aptitude for being a great Apothecary, I think it was your saintly demeanor and honesty that tipped the scales for Cleaverbrook to bring you into the guild. I swear that man has a standard ...”

  Conner’s cheeks burned. He feigned attention with an intense nod. What would Cleaverbrook say if he learned of Conner’s misdeeds in Cravenrock? He stifled a shudder at the thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fighter stand and clear a hasty path to the door.

  Conner’s thoughts began to race. Was it pure coincidence that someone had chosen to sing “Riders of the Order” right then? Was it an accident that the same orderman he’d run into five streets from here showed up in this very same tavern at that very moment? And what of Jess’s reference to his moral character? Conner shook his head. Was he exhausted and seeking meaning in purely random events, or was he being given an opportunity to atone for Cravenrock? No, in the final outcome, it doesn’t matter which, he thought determinedly. He was in control of his destiny.
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  He settled and sensed a force nudging him, shaping his reactions. Somewhere in that churning haze of feelings, Conner sensed there was something he could use to guide him. So he rambled through the halls of his mind, tracking Skye’s emotional scent, until he came upon what could only be described as a capped conduit. He touched it with his thoughts and the cap broke free. Stars danced across his vision; daggers stabbed the insides of his eyes. Everything tilted with the intense rush of profound feelings. He struggled to control it, or at least direct it, but it fought back with its own purpose. And he succumbed.

  He became aware that Jess had stopped talking. Conner stared down at his friend with half-vacant eyes. “Jess, would you please get a message to my parents to let them know I am fine? I will be returning home, but I have something very important to do first.”

  “Of course, Conner. Consider it done. But where ...?”

  Conner raised his palms. “There is something I need to take care of. I will explain everything the next time we meet, but for now, good-bye my friend. I thank you for a delightful evening.” On his way to the door, Conner winked and smiled at Tara, making the girl’s cheeks flush. Without looking back, he slipped out. On legs no longer aching, he started up the street, dogging the two men who had left the alehouse moments before.

  Wallis Arkman glanced up at the young Eastlander moving toward the door. The lad was so focused on the pretty lass at the bar that he failed to notice the man’s beaming smile. Not that he was much to notice; the man possessed no particularly distinct features other than a hawkish nose and a melodic tenor voice. The two yeomen he had struck up a conversation with at his table were deliberating their accounts of a freeman farmer who had recently climbed Cravenrock’s wall. But while both claimed to have witnessed the event, the two seldom agreed on any specific point. Of course, Wallis had been there himself. After all, someone needed to point the bumbling city guardsmen toward the lad called Bandit. Neither story came close to the truth.