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“The Sword of the Dragon’s Eye,” Marblin named the weapon reverently, naturally bowing his head and folding his hands. “The Sword of Kings.”

“One question, if I may,” Warnyck interposed. “Why would Knights of Beledon try to kill your father for this item? What reason could they have for keeping him from laying hands to the Sword of the Dragon’s Eye: the very weapon by which our land could be made whole?”

“That question has been in my mind since I first learned of my father’s valorous quest, friend scout,” Loric answered him dejectedly. “Sadly, I have no answer for it.”

Warnyck thought on it before he ventured, “Perhaps the answer lies in the Blood of Logant.”

“What do you mean?” Loric questioned.

“Consider the ultimate ending of your father’s quest,” the scout led him. “Think of his lineage and ask yourself why others would wish him to fail.”

“Are you suggesting that Lord Falric sent knights to stop my father?” Loric inquired. His mind raced with the possibility. It certainly agreed with intrigues described in
The Knightly Log
of Sir Palendar
.

“Watch your tongue, scout!” Marblin scolded him.

“Why?” Barag challenged. “It seems to fit Lords of Durbansdan! Sending knights after your champion makes as much sense as attacking a village you are sworn to protect!” he growled.

Marblin reached for his sword, threatening, “I’ll have your apology or your blood!”

“Enough!” Loric shouted.

Marblin released his sword hilt and glared at Barag.

Barag unhanded his pommel and closed his mouth.

Warnyck seized the moment to suggest, “Your father was the greatest knight of his day.

Moreover, he was the Blood of Logant, which made him Blood of Donigan. What lord should dare oppose him if he won the Sword of Kings?”

“Have a care, friend scout,” Loric warned him. “You speak of my father as one who would commit treason and I will hear no more of it.”

“I do not intend to say your father was a would-be traitor to the Lords of Durbansdan,”

Warnyck hastily explained. “I only mean to point out that others at court may have feared his intentions.”

Marblin defended his lords uncertainly, saying, “Surely Lord Falric was secure in his rule.

He had no reason to fear a successful quest by Sir Palendar. Right?”

“I have no doubt that Sir Palendar had much to fear,” grumbled Barag.

“I am not certain, one way or the other,” Loric said, doing his best to mask the tumult of fiercely conflicting emotions within him. Warnyck had brought up valid points. What the scout suggested certainly fit Palendar’s accounts. According to Nimshar, though, his father had lied about the betrayal he had described in his knightly log. Had he in fact sought to become king?

That thought troubled Loric. “I do not like this talk of throne grabbing,” he said flatly. “It makes my heart sick. These are matters of the past. We should leave them there. Let us focus on travels before us. We should eat,” he said kindly. “We must eat--and rest too.”

“Absolutely,” Barag agreed, hastening inside.

“For once, I am of like mind with him,” said Warnyck, following Barag. “I’m famished.”

The feast was on. Three hungry soldiers and a boy dove into fresh food fit to satisfy rumbles brought on by arduous travel. Loric sat with them, picking at walnuts, little interested in eating.

Not even the map could hold his attention. He was thoughtful, but his mind wandered.

Loric continued to weigh his father’s innocence against his guilt, as it pertained to the Sword of the Dragon’s Eye. On one hand, his motives may have been pure, in which case, the Knights of Beledon had clearly wronged him. That scenario made him right to hide amongst farm folk of Taeglin to protect his son. Yet, on the other hand, Loric wondered whether his father might have held notions of seizing the Throne of Beledon, which made him a traitor. Loric did not want to believe that was the case, but Palen’s reluctance to tell his son of his past caused Loric to doubt him. The knight felt shame for his doubt and shame for his father’s possible wrongdoing, with no way to escape either. Whether Palendar had made a move for the throne or not, it clearly looked that way to other lords, for they had turned against him.

Loric began questioning his own honor. After all, he had sworn to serve Lord Aldric under false titles, when he owed his allegiance to Lord Garrick. Loric felt his blood boil.
I am as
ignoble as the rest of Beledon’s highborn lords!

Loric’s thoughts ran continuously, as he tallied every Beledonian Nobleman he had come to know, finding fault with each of them, even those he wanted to believe in. With Garrick came the promise of Garrett, if he still lived. With Aldric came the certainty of lies upon lies, for the supposed good of Beledon. With Palendar, if he had survived the attack on Taeglin, came the question of outright treason. Garrett was cruel, Hadregeon was treacherous and Turtioc was a barbarian brute. Loric went through the list countless times, but he could not rightly determine who should become king.

“Is there a lord in Beledon who can be trusted to do right?” Loric spouted angrily.

The others broke off their conversation to stare at him.

“Is there an upright lord in all the land to reunite our people?” he begged to know. His friends still looked surprised by his passionate queries. “Are our children’s children to know this same backbiting and strife that has torn our kingdom apart?” he questioned. His cheeks burned with ale, with anger. Sir Palendar’s intended heroics could have returned a king to the Throne of Beledon, be that king Garrick or Palendar. Ten bloody generations of constant warring, plotting, ruin and more of the same could have ended in Loric’s infancy. Not only that, but an eleventh generation might have been spared the same terrible fate. “We must succeed in our quest, gentlemen,” Loric said quietly. “Beledon must have a king, and he must be worthy to lead us.

Let the Great King judge who will wear the crown and bear the scepter.”

“Rightly said, my friend,” Warnyck concurred, lifting his cup. “I’ll drink to that!”

The others joined him in his toast. Then together, they began planning every meticulous detail of their coming journey, using every resource available to them. They looked to the map for guidance. Loric found writings on Nimshar’s bookshelves that detailed Dimwood Forest and the surrounding area. Those were handwritten works, jotted down on loose leaves, which may have been the old sorcerer’s findings.

The companions discovered troubling passages and drawings in those books, detailing the lifestyles and habits of Spirit Men about whom Nimshar had warned Loric. There were sketches of those savages and their dwelling places, along with descriptions of their rituals and hunting techniques. Warnyck was the first to note that Spirit Men had already stalked them, but Nimshar had used the vines of Dimwood to ward off their poisoned darts. Strangely, the author described fire dances and sacrifices, which Loric remembered from his dreams. He winced as he thought of his glimpse into the future.

The Blood of Logant remained a mystery beyond their collective grasp. They could not find a scratch of note about the place, even to confirm that it was a place. The only scribble they could find of that name was on Sir Palendar’s map, which held no key to help them decipher its significance. All they had to go on was their suspicion that the Dragon’s Eye was hidden there, presumably in the hands of a second keeper.

“We must rest,” Loric declared. “We could search these works for a hundred moon and be no nearer to knowing what the Blood of Logant is. Let us get a good night’s rest. We leave on the morrow. If the Great King smiles upon us, we will find this Blood of Logant the day after that.”

“Then let us retire,” Barag urged. “We know not what awaits us, but we should come to face it fully rested.”

“Quite right,” Marblin chimed in.

Kelvion had long-since drifted off to sleep. “One of you should take the boy to his bed,”

Marblin suggested. “I am too old to be toting young lads up steep steps.”

Loric scooped Kelvey from the floor and followed the others up the stairs. One by one, Loric said goodnight to his friends, until only Kelvion remained with him. The knight lowered the slumbering child onto a soft bed and tucked him in with a thick blanket. Loric could no longer restrain his yawns by the time reached his chamber at the end of the hall. He crossed the threshold of his room and made straight for his bed. It was a welcome sight.

****

Loric began dreaming before he reached his mat. His mind was ablaze with fire. Cinders and ash swirled amidst glowing embers that looked like orange and yellow butterflies, until they shriveled into gray and black dust. Loric was sweating from the intensity of the fire. Flame glare and smoke clouds added to the haze of nightmare, but Loric knew the setting.

****

Loric awoke early the next morning. The only warmth he felt was that of the bright sun on his face as it infiltrated glass panes of the little round window to the east. He expelled a breath to release tension and swiped wet bangs from his brow. There was no fire, which was reason for relief, but he wondered what would become of this place in days ahead. The Father of the Forest had kept Loric and his companions safe from Spirit Men of Dimwood, and the keeper had spoken to reveal Sir Palendar’s secret. Both stood threatened by a foretelling dream.

“Fire will come to the place where the keeper speaks,” Loric whispered. “I must warn

Nimshar of his danger.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Blood of Logant

Loric and company gathered up their things and gulped down a quick breakfast. Nimshar reappeared, seemingly from thin air. Loric remembered his dream, so he spoke to his host concerning things he had seen. The old man pointed to the book.

Harbor no fears concerning my well-being, son of Palendar,
it advised.
Instead, look to the
path before you.

“I have a question about the path I would take,” Loric told the old man. “My father marked a place on his map called the Blood of Logant. Do you know what that means?”

Nimshar nodded toward the book.
It is a clue, but it is up to you to answer this riddle.

“Is that all you can say?” Loric questioned, sorely disappointed.

Nimshar nodded for his answer. Then he changed the subject, advising,
Be not hindered by
the underbrush along your path. Nay, do not.

“What do you mean?” Loric questioned.

You have the dragon eyes and you wield dragon sorceries,
Nimshar explained.
Allow
yourself to sense your world as a dragon would and you will understand my meaning.

“Sense my world as a dragon would?” Loric questioned. “How does a dragon sense its

world? How can I do this?”

Nimshar pointed to the book, which wrote,
You must learn, for this is the key to controlling
those dark powers within you.

“Can you offer me no more help than this?” Loric asked. “I would welcome even a hint.”

The grin on Nimshar’s face could have been innocent or evil, but he gave no response. The page in front of Loric only said,
It is time for you and yours to go. Fare thee well, son of
Palendar.

The aged enchanter led the companions to the door, where he saw them off with a deliberate wave. Loric strode to the edge of the clearing and halted. Barag took out his sword and made to attack entwined vines before him, but Loric stopped him with an upraised hand.

Loric closed his eyes to focus his mind. He drew a deep breath and listened. He felt a touch of wind that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. There was scent of something both familiar and strange to Loric. It was man scent, but it was far off in shaded gullies. He felt tension in those gathered around him, but he pushed that distraction away. There were precious few natural creatures in the wood, but he could feel all of them, as if he could see them by their instinctive worries. There were evil spirits lurking in Dimwood as well. He could sense them too--feel the twists of their hatred. However, there was something else....

Loric did not recognize it at first. He could only feel its existence, but then he began to understand it. Befouled by taint worse than the blood of Anomaktildor in the Enchanted River, forest growth had suffered the wrath of dragons as well. Each plant had burned within. They had drunk from the river to ease the burning, only to suffer more fire. Yet, the curse had come upon Dimwood with a gift in return. The plantain was sentient.

Loric could feel those trees. He could feel those vines.

“Blades away!” Loric commanded his friends.

“How am I to cleave our way?” Barag boomed, agitated.

Warnyck must have sensed Loric’s anxiousness. “Swords away,” the scout repeated,

slipping his blade into its sheath.

“Okay,” Marblin conceded.

Barag sheathed his sword with a growl.

We are only passing through,
Loric thought, as he made contact with those thorny vines before him.
We intend you no harm. I understand what you have endured. You have suffered
enough. I humbly ask you to open the path before our feet and we will leave you in peace.

We cannot know peace, Dragon Eyes!
was the reply, like the scrape of a bow against a violin.
Nevertheless, we cannot deny the command of dragons. We must obey.

Vines drew apart to open the way to Loric and his companions. He knew this before he

opened his eyes to look, before he heard gasps of astonishment exiting his friends, before Kelvion shouted it aloud in the excitement of youth.
Thank you,
he thought.

We cannot accept your thanks, Dragon Eyes!
retorted the plant life.
We must obey.

“How did you…?” Marblin started, but he could not finish his query.

Loric did not oblige to answer. Instead, he turned to offer Nimshar a final thank you. The old man was gone. All that remained of the sorcerer or his home--the great tree known as the Father of the Forest--was a burned-out hollow that was full of ash and cinders. It was as if Loric and his friends had dreamt the previous night into existence. Were it not for the map Loric was holding, he would have thought he had gone mad. The old familiar tingle iced his spine from top to bottom.