The Dragon Wrath: Book Two of the Arlon Prophecies

by Randy McWilson

  “The old mannn wasss right on both accountssss.”

  Arlon snapped his head up as the hulking form of the Dragon plunged down right before him. Terras Telos lowered his head and locked all four amber eyes with Arlon’s.

  “Your path isss both foolishhh and dangeroussss,” he hissed. “And now…it willll cost even your very livessss.” The Dragon reared back and prepared to shower the group with jets of liquid fire.

  “Hey, are you alright?” Paymer whispered.

  Arlon blinked several times and scanned the area in terror.

  “Hey, Arlon!” Paymer repeated firmly. He snapped his fingers. “Over here. You okay? You look a little freaked out, pal.”

  Kash was gone. The Dragon was gone.

  His vivid daydream was gone.

  “Oh, uh, yeah…yeah,” Arlon reassured without much assurance. “I, uh, just kinda drifted off there for a second. Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Well, I think we’re stopping.” Paymer pointed. “There’s a creek up ahead. It’s probably time to water the horses and let everyone stretch their legs.”

  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  _____________________________________

  Mogg was the first to dismount and he thrust his right arm high overhead. “Keep the horses and yourselves back,” he cautioned.

  Arlon shot a fast glance over at Paymer and then Trilyra. They both shrugged.

  Mogg crunched through the loose gravel as he descended the gradual incline leading down to the narrow creek. He looked both ways before dropping down to one knee and carefully scooping up a palmful of water.

  “What’s he doing?” Hort asked quietly.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of Therion ritual,” Mae’Lee guessed.

  “Kray ritual,” Paymer corrected.

  Mogg raised his hand to his nose.

  “Is he…smelling the water?” Hort asked.

  Mogg swirled his hand in tight motions below his nostrils before finally tasting the creek water. He took yet another small sip.

  “Whoa…now that’s a new one,” Paymer admitted.

  “The water is safe,” Mogg announced, rising up and drying his hand. “Bring the horses. Replenish your own containers after they have satisfied their thirst.”

  One by one, they all dismounted and guided their animals over to the shallow stream. Arlon found his way over to Mogg.

  “Just one small question, your Excellency.”

  Mogg stared up at him.

  “Uh, why did you do that? You know, why did you smell the water and then taste it?”

  Mogg gestured at the trees all around them. “As we travel north and east, we may encounter Leeskor. Some of the Kray call it Dreadwood.”

  Paymer looked over. “Dreadwood?”

  Mogg squinted. “Dreadwood. Our eastern borders contain forests overcome with this scourge.”

  “What is this Dreadwood?” Trilyra asked.

  “It is to be avoided,” he replied. “Woman of the south.”

  She stroked the deep black hair of her horse’s neck. “You know, I do have a name, your Excellency. It’s Trilyra. Of Ammodis.”

  Mogg offered absolutely no indication that he even heard her, or that he cared in the slightest.

  “But why is it to be avoided?” Arlon asked. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Mogg knelt down and snatched a thick stick off the ground. He quickly snapped it in half and examined the break. “To inhale the smoke of burning Dreadwood is to invite terror,” he explained. “It causes fearful dreams to visit one upon his bed. Terrors and horrors in the night. The Kray of the Kla’aven Skree use Leeskor to torture their captives. Some are driven insane by fear. Even the roots of the Leeskor can poison the streams.”

  Hold on, Arlon thought. Smoke?

  Terrible nightmares? Horrors in the night?

  He locked eyes with Trilyra. “Did you hear what he just said? Dreadwood causes really, really, really bad dreams. Sound familiar? Think about it, guys…when did you have the worst nightmare of your life?”

  “Oh…the cave,” Trilyra murmured, playing with her ear-chain.

  Paymer’s red eyebrows shot up. “Yep. The cave.”

  Mae’Lee hugged her own arms as her voice trembled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Hort just dropped his head.

  “That’s what I thought,” Arlon said. “The cave was only a couple of days ago. There was a lot of smoke. The Dragon tried to burn down the whole forest, remember?”

  “I’ve been trying to forget, thank you,” the Princess retorted.

  “Dread wood,” Trilyra mumbled. “It makes sense.”

  Mogg tossed both halves of the broken stick aside. “You have known the scourge of Dreadwood?”

  Trilyra bit her bottom lip. “Yes.”

  He made no attempt to hide his confusion. “Yes?”

  “It, uh, it is well-spoken,” Paymer interjected. “Your Excellency.”

  “Yes,” Mogg repeated, playing with the word like a child infatuated with a new toy. “Yes. Yes?”

  Trilyra nodded and brought her hands together in a praying fashion. “Yes. Yes is the Vice way of saying ‘it is well-spoken.’”

  He stared at her and brought his own hands together. “Yes…woman of the south.”

  “Trilyra,” she affirmed with a half-serious scowl. “My name is Trilyra.”

  Good luck with that, Arlon chuckled to himself. I think it will take a while to win him over.

  If ever.

  “We must eat quickly, then depart,” Mogg commanded. “To linger, is to invite discovery.” With a swift pivot, he headed directly towards Tempest and began rummaging through a series of storage satchels stashed just behind the saddle. Trilyra followed on his heels and carefully rested her back against the side of the massive horse. She pulled a single arrow from her quiver and rolled it between her fingers. He didn’t seem to be interested in her obvious intrusion. Or her weapon.

  “Why did you say that it was dishonorable?” she asked. “You said that I attacked your Kylldor with a dishonorable weapon.”

  Mogg fished out a thick slab of meat along with a fist-sized hunk of dark, crumbling bread. “It is well-spoken,” he replied while taking a fast bite. “The Vice fight with arrows, which are dishonorable weapons.”

  She gestured over at the javelins hanging below Mogg’s saddle. “And the Kray fight with nice, pointy spears. What’s the difference?”

  Mogg brushed the crumbs off his lips and swallowed hard. In a move worthy of a magician, he snatched the arrow from her hands without losing any of his food. “An arrow, woman of the south, can kill an enemy which your eyes have not seen or cannot see.” He dropped the shaft back into her waiting palm. “To kill a man or beast without confronting them is dishonorable.”

  Trilyra stowed her arrow and folded her arms. “So, it’s honorable to kill a man, but it’s dishonorable to—“

  The tense conversation would have to wait. A piercing scream shot out from the other side of the startled horses. Trilyra and Mogg sprang into action and clambered across the creek, followed by the rest of the boys.

  That was the Princess! Arlon thought.

  The group quickly located the distraught girl lying in the grass a few yards away and clutching her ankle. Mae’Lee was rolling from side to side as tears streamed down her grimacing face.

  “What’s wrong?!” Arlon yelled as he dropped beside her.

  Mae’Lee removed the hand from her right ankle and raised the leg aloft. It was hard to miss the three red holes and a merging trickle of blood beginning to seep.

  “Snake bite!” Trilyra said. “I think.”

  Mae’Lee nodded in between her breathy fits of sobbing.

  “So what happened?!” Arlon asked.

  “I, I was…looking…looking at the flowers over…there.” She sucked in a huge breath. “I thought it…it was a…a stick…But, it, it moved, and, and…it bit me.”

  Mogg knelt quickly and inspected the wound
. “The creature was brown. As a piece of wood?”

  She nodded and brushed the tears off her reddening cheeks.

  He rose up. “It was a serpent. A Clodling.”

  “A Clodling? Are they venomous?” Paymer inquired.

  Mogg frowned. “Ven-o-mous?”

  Paymer struggled. “Uh, does that kind of snake make you sick or…or die if they bite you?”

  Mogg spread his hands apart. “It is an ill thought. The teeth of a Clodling bring pain, but they do not bring death.”

  Mae’Lee clutched her ankle again. “Oh, yeah, they bring pain alright!” Her skin was already beginning to shift towards a deep red, and swelling was setting in.

  “Take her to the stream,” Mogg instructed. “Cleanse the wounds in the cool water.”

  Paymer and Arlon guided the Princess to her feet before nearly carrying her over to douse the enflamed area in the creek.

  “We need to depart as soon as she is fit,” Mogg advised.

  “It would be best to reach the borders of the Kla’aven Skree before night falls.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Arlon had noticed that the gentle heat and subtle crackling of a campfire seemed to be the fastest and surest way to lift everyone’s spirits. And their first night after leaving Lamillar was certainly no different. Smiles (which had been absent throughout most of the twelve-hour haul) rose as quickly as the dancing, red and amber flames licking up before him in the modest cave.

  Even the straight-faced Mogg appeared to be enjoying himself. And that was something.

  There had been rare, sporadic pockets of conversation earlier in the day, but once Mogg warned that they had entered the domain of the Kla’aven Skree, the hushed group became no louder than a vacant tomb.

  Hort flinched nervously every time someone added another stick to the comforting fire. “Are you sure there isn’t any—you know—Deadwood or whatever in there?” he asked.

  Arlon patted him on the shoulder. “That’s Dreadwood.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  Mogg grabbed a small branch and broke it in half. He held it up. “The wood of the Leeskor is a rich yellow,” he said. “And it smells like crushed mint.” He cast the pieces into the flames. “This…is neither.”

  “Well…okay,” Hort replied. “As long as you’re sure.”

  “There is only one way to be certain,” Mogg declared.

  “What’s that?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  Hold on, Arlon thought.

  Was that a joke? Did Mogg the Emotionless just make a joke? He glanced up at the young king of the Kray. The unlikely source was obviously trying hard to fight back a smile. Everybody erupted in a fit of laughter.

  Except for Hort.

  “Whoa! Now that—that—was funny,” Paymer roared.

  “I don’t think it was,” Hort huffed.

  “Oh, come on now, Hort from the port. The Vish’tar of the Kla’aven Mage just made what could possibly be his first attempt at humor. At least appreciate the grand significance of the moment!”

  Trilyra warmed a slice of meat on the end of her blade. She dipped it lower into the fire. “Paymer’s right. It was quite humorous.”

  Mae’Lee joined in. “It even made me forget how dreadful my leg feels. For a few seconds, at least.”

  “Speaking of that.” Arlon set his food down and crawled over to her. “So, how is our crippled royal patient doing?”

  She peeled the damp scarf away from her ankle for his closer inspection. A worried look washed over the shifting shadows across Arlon’s face.

  “Oh…my,” he mumbled. “Ummm…it’s getting worse.” Arlon snapped his fingers to gain Trilyra’s attention. “Get that meat off your sword. I think we’re gonna have to cut her foot off to save her leg.” He winked really big as the Princess slapped his arm playfully.

  “Ouch!” he yelped.

  She whacked him again.

  “Hey, Princess! Come on, that hurt! I’m very sensitive after a long day riding a strange horse.”

  Mae’Lee wagged her finger over at Mogg. “See what you’ve started? Now everyone thinks that they are a funny man.”

  “I’m a funny man,” Paymer piped up. “And adorable. But, in the exact opposite order.”

  There were a few giggles.

  “We can laugh now,” Mogg added. “But in the morning we continue to journey north through the Kla’aven Skree. With the Skree, laugher is replaced with pain.” The jovial mood around the campfire vanished just as quickly as it came. “They kill without honor. The Skree take slaves, both of the Kray and of the Vice. Their ways are wickedness. The Kray have fought many, many wars among the six Kla’aven, but the greed and cruelty of the Skree are at the heart of most of them.”

  Trilyra sat up. “But I thought that you were on good terms with the Kla’aven Skree,” she said. “You told us that they gave you Tempest as a gift when you became the Vish’tar.”

  Mogg smiled while gazing into the fire. “The Vice are strangers to our ways, woman of the south. There is an ancient saying we share among ourselves. A Kray shows a gift in his left hand, and hides a knife in his right.” He grabbed a stick and poked at the base of the flames. “With the Skree…it is two knives.”

  Arlon crawled back to his original seat and picked up his food. “So, uh, how did you come to power, your Excellency? Has your family always ruled the Kla’aven Mage? Was your father the Vish’tar?”

  “It is an ill thought, Arlon of the Kla’aven Soteria. My family is from one of the weakest of the villages of the Mage. When I was born, my father saw the Mark of Power and hid me away from the others.”

  “But why?” Mae’Lee asked. “Would they be afraid of you?”

  “Because they would try to kill me,” Mogg countered. “Any with the Mark of Power may challenge the throne of the Vish’tar.”

  “Oh,” Mae’Lee mumbled. “So you were a threat to his throne.”

  “It is well-spoken. My father knew that A’Arric, Vish’tar of the Kla’aven Mage, would seek to kill any child with the Mark of Power. So I remained hidden in the forests. For many years. But my father prepared me. He trained me, every day, for the Tar’deel. The Right of Challenge.”

  “Is that a fight?” Trilyra asked.

  “It is well-spoken. Until submission or death.”

  “Whoa,” Paymer exclaimed. “So, did the other Vish’tar end up submitting…or did he die?”

  Mogg stared into the fire once again. “He did both.”

  “Both?” Paymer repeated. “What do you mean both? I thought it was one or the other?”

  “When I was twelve, I came to Lamillar for the Tar’deel. A’Arric was far older and much stronger, but I was faster.” Mogg pulled his shirt up and pointed at a series of scars across his belly. “His long-knife met my flesh several times, but I disarmed him and prevailed that day.”

  Mae’Lee’s pushed the hair out of her eyes. “You killed him?”

  “I prevailed,” he reiterated forcibly. “The Vish’tar submitted. He was beaten.”

  Paymer looked around. “I thought you said that he died? Your Excellency.”

  “The Vish’tar did die. In his treachery.”

  “What happened?” Arlon pressed.

  “Once the Vish’tar submitted, I removed my blade from his neck and tended to my own injuries, which were serious. A’Arric rose to his feet and attacked me from behind. We both went down.” Mogg paused. “But A’Arric never got back up. I plunged his own long-knife straight through his foul heart.”

  Wow. Arlon’s eyebrows shot up.

  Nobody dared speak for several seconds.

  The quiet crackling of the campfire seemed to grow louder and louder in ongoing, awkward silence. Arlon cleared his throat.

  “I, uh, I guess your father was very proud of you that day.”

  Mogg’s stoic eyes began to glass over with a thin layer of gathering tears. “My father did not live to see the Tar’deel,” he replied, his words cracking a bit. “Or my mo
ther.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I—“

  “We were attacked on our journey to Lamillar,” Mogg announced. “By the Skree. In a Skree raid. My f-father…” His voice trembled then broke. “My father…gave his life, so that I…could escape.”

  Arlon didn’t know what to say.

  He doubted if anyone did.

  I can’t believe that I am feeling sorry for a wild man of the west…a Therion, he said to himself.

  “When Tempest arrived a few weeks later, I spent all of my time with him. I turned my sorrow and loss into something else,” Mogg confessed. A conflicted grin fought its way across his troubled face. “Tempest became my family.”

  More pained silence.

  Mogg pushed up off the ground and rose to his shuffling feet. “I will go and check the welfare of our horses.” He hesitated when he reached the mouth of the damp cave. “And I will take the first watch of the night.” Two seconds later, he blended into the darkness.

  “Wow,” Arlon exhaled. “I love to hear a good story, but…wow. Now that’s a story!”

  “It is so different from ours,” Paymer said, “but then again, maybe not so very different at all.”

  “Really? How so?” Mae’Lee asked.

  “Well, your Highness, like all of us, Mogg had to live a special, sheltered life from day one…as a Dunamai. And like the rest of us, he was being prepared for one very, very, very important day. For us, it was the Doro Drakon. For him, the Tar’deel.”

  “Wow, Paymer,” Arlon said. “That’s really deep. I didn’t know you had it in you!”

  Paymer didn’t seem to be interested in smiling. “Unfortunately, Mogg and I have something else in common.” He stared into his lap. “We, uh, we both lost our fathers. To the Skree.”

  Trilyra sat up and stared over at Paymer. “Are you planning to tell Mogg what happened to your family?” she asked.

  “I don’t really know,” he answered. He tossed a handful of small twigs, one at a time, into the dying fire. “Up til now, I thought about Mogg as just another murdering Therion. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but I kinda lumped all those forest freaks together.”