DragonLight (38 page)

         
49
         

W
ORDS
U
NKNOWN

An influx of warriors, knights, and wizards flooded the meech village, and still, the treacherous dragon slept. On the third day, Paladin arrived. In the evening, he went with the men who would chant in the cave. Some of these men would also deliver food and water to Mot Angra. Bardon and the other warriors tagged along but did not enter the cave. They circled the entrance at a distance and awaited orders from Paladin.

The leader of Amara wore his finest royal garb and on his shoulder sat the purple dragon, Metta, with her head held high. Bardon had been astonished that Paladin requested the minor dragon to accompany him. Paladin had winked and said, “The singing dragon and I are riding on a hunch.”

Bardon saw their leader hesitate at the opening. He knew that feeling. The darkness in the cave was not due to lack of light. Bardon felt the oppression even thirty feet away.

Paladin turned and his eyes met Bardon’s.
“Come with me.”

Bardon’s hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. He wanted to say, “No, thank you. I’ve been in once, and once is enough.” But he bit his tongue and walked quickly to stand at Paladin’s side.

Paladin spoke in an undertone. “I want you to tell me if you see or feel anything different from the first time you witnessed this place.”

Bardon nodded. He couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat. His experience with the cave consisted of his visit plus the secondhand knowledge from Pat, who had followed the men coming here in the middle of the night. The images Pat projected into his mind disturbed him far more than his memories of his own visit.

Paladin looked Bardon in the eye. “A monstrous evil should take your breath away. But breathe, comrade. Wulder gives life and breath. What the monster has taken away, we shall claim again, for Wulder bequeaths it to us.”

The meech men filed into the cave, carrying torches, and lining up in rows. Their chant started with a low hum that crescendoed to the first spoken word. Paladin and Bardon watched from under the beautifully painted wall. Over the heads of the chanters, the black, glistening paint on the opposite wall caught the flickers of torchlight. The fierce dragon in the drawing seemed to flex its muscles. His chest appeared to draw in and out as if panting. Even the great yellowed eyes swept back and forth over the mere mortals at its feet.

“Enough!” shouted Paladin and strode to the front of the men. “Stop and learn the words you were told to sing.”

The voices stilled, not at once, but with a staggering that hinted of fear. Afraid to continue, afraid to stop. Most of the men’s eyes shifted away from Paladin’s strong figure to the gaping black hole at the back of the cavern.

Paladin pointed to a young meech in the front row. “Sing the first line of your chant.”

The man cleared his throat and sang huskily, “O-gitaks to who Derfor ess soo.”

Paladin opened his mouth and sang the phrase again. “Oh, give thanks to Wulder, for He is good.”

The words echoed off the walls. As the phrase bounced from wall to wall, Bardon could see how the individual sounds lost their shape and became distorted from the original. But with Paladin’s force of conviction, the first words hung in his heart, and the echoes faded.

Paladin pointed to the next meech. “The second line.”

This man sang with more strength. “Foress mur sees indoors forests rivers.”

Paladin sang. “For His mercies endure forever and ever.”

Metta bounced on Paladin’s shoulder as he again pointed.

“Ike awl to who der indess.”

Paladin shook his head. “You’ve moved a word that belongs with this phrase and tacked it to the beginning of the next. The word you sing as rest is really the second part of distress.” He threw back his head and intoned, “I call to Wulder in distress.”

With the next meech in line, he said, “Sing after ‘rest’ to the end of this stanza of the chant.”

“Who Der and sir me and set me inbraw de Plae sess.”

This time Paladin crooned the words with infinite love in his voice, and Metta trilled with him, filling out the fullness of the words. “Wulder answered me and set me in broad places.”

He then took the bucket of water from one of the carriers. “Show me where this Mot Angra sleeps.” He turned to look at Bardon. “Want to come?”

The words, the real words, of the song had bolstered Bardon’s courage. He liked the loud, plaintive notes of “I called to Wulder in distress.” And the answer soothed with a reflection of the same melody pattern but in a different key and tone. He hummed “and set me in broad places” as he picked up another bucket and joined Paladin.

Dread of the deeper cavern rippled across Bardon’s skin, but the torches shone brighter than he expected. He sang with the men as they incanted “Wulder answered me and set me in broad places” with skill.

Many times, Bardon had received Pat’s images of the activities in Mot Angra’s cave. The visit to this place had disturbed the little dragon, and he didn’t seem to be able to shake the memory. Bardon clearly saw the difference between that evening and this one. Even with the undercurrent of fear and apprehension, Bardon knew this ceremony had more hope infused in the performance.

The air thickened with moisture and a heavy perfume as they descended. The fragrance filled Bardon’s nostrils and nearly choked him. The vocalization ceased as the party of men used shallow breathing to keep from absorbing the cloying aroma into their lungs. With the muffling of distance, the group of singers in the entry cave could still be heard.

A nerve-grating noise replaced their pleasant music. The wheeze of a big beast inhaling, then a slight rumble as it exhaled made Bardon aware of the living creature somewhere close by.

They came to a hot cavern. Bardon could only guess at the size of the underground room. Their torches cut through the dense darkness for no more than a few feet in any direction, but his inner sense told him he could walk a great distance before finding the opposite wall.

The meech hurried about their task, moving quietly on the stone floor to positions where they propped the torches in wooden holders. The man with the recently slain deer walked into the dark with two men carrying torches close at his shoulders. Paladin and Bardon followed with their lights lifted to dispense the gloom.

On the floor, a spot smeared with blood marked where the next meal would be placed. Careful to not make a sound, the food-bearer crept closer and gently eased the carcass out of his arms, not letting it drop, but sliding the deer down to rest in front of a black rock.

The rock, however, twitched. Bardon realized he was looking at one nostril of an extremely large beast. The steady in and out of air halted, then started again. The nose quivered. The meech men backed away, pushing Paladin and Bardon away as well.

The rockish form rolled, revealing a slash of mouth. The mouth opened, and gleaming teeth shone in the torchlight. The teeth clicked twice and parted. A thin red tongue slid out, snaking toward the deer carcass. The tip touched the rough fur, tapped down the body until it reached blood, then passed back and forth over the wound. The tongue licked until no more blood caked the fur. The serpentine end wrapped around the corpse and dragged the slain animal toward the mouth, past the lips, over the ridge of teeth, and into the depths of the throat.

A meech signaled by waving a torch in an arc. The men who delivered the deer trudged away from the beast, and those carrying buckets passed them as they went down to pour water into a trough carved in the stone floor. Paladin and Bardon emptied their buckets, then joined the men as they convened at the cavern entrance.

“He didn’t chew,” Bardon whispered to Paladin.

“Apparently, he swallows his dinner whole.” Paladin followed the meech as they retraced their steps to the outer cave. “If his snout is taller than our meech friends, how big do you think his body might be?”

Bardon walked beside his commander for a few moments before he answered, “Big.”

Paladin rubbed his jaw. “What do you think his weak points might be?” “He’s so heavy, I wonder if he can fly.”

They walked faster as they left Mot Angra behind than when they carried the beast’s meal to him.

Bardon puzzled over what little they could see. The feeling of pent-up evil radiated from the beast, but his sluggish manner did not threaten them in the least. However, the meech said the dragon had been known to suddenly awake, grab one of the meech, and then go back to sleep. That prospect unnerved the men who took down Mot Angra’s food.

Bardon took a deep breath of the fresh air as they reached the outer chamber. He stopped to survey the scene. The meech faces relaxed, losing their apprehensive expressions.

Paladin strode to face the men. “Mot Angra has a weakness, and we shall find it.” He surveyed the solemn crowd. “I would like a few questions answered, please.”

Seslie came forward. “Yes sir.”

Paladin pointed to the wonderful eruption of color on one wall. The painting depicted a tableau of plants and animals, a blue sky and radiant sun. In one corner, a swirl of beautiful colors exploded from a dark background.

“Who painted this mural here?” asked Paladin. “And what is its meaning?”

“We don’t know,” said Seslie. “It has always been here.”

Paladin pointed to the monstrous black dragon on the opposite wall. “And that?”

Those in the room stirred, and Seslie eagerly answered. “We know of that artist. He lived ten generations ago. He drew Mot Angra so that we would remember why our vigil is important. So we would not forget our purpose.”

Paladin nodded sadly. “A mistake has been made.” He pointed to the lovely drawing. “This painting was to keep you from forgetting your purpose. You were not to forget the Creator, the One whose glory is seen in living things. I don’t know if Wulder drew that for you Himself, or if He commissioned one of your ancestors right after your people came through to this new world.”

With a scowl, he turned to examine the dragon’s likeness. “Scrub that from the stone. We do not concentrate on evil. When you chant, you focus on the entrance to the evil one’s lair. From now on, turn your eyes to the wonders of Wulder. No longer will the treacherous Mot Angra look down on you as you sing of Wulder’s greatness. His likeness is not to be allowed here. Even the appearance of evil is forbidden.”

Paladin grandly gestured toward the first painting. “Come, men, we are not forsaken. Wulder, who is portrayed in that image, is your Guide and Protector.”

The earth trembled, the rocks groaned, and Paladin glared at the hole leading to Mot Angra. “Your time is coming, evil one. Your days are numbered.”

         
50
         

A S
URPRISE

Kale had come to this room for two reasons—to greet her parents and to say goodbye to Gilda. On one side of the small chamber, a curtain separated Gilda’s deathbed from the flow of people coming to the expected battle with Mot Angra. The other wall shimmered where Regidor had built a gateway. Kale shifted baby Penn from one shoulder to the other. When she moved him, Fly raced across the back of her neck to sit beside his head.

Holding the edge of Kale’s wizard robe, Toopka eyed the furnishings of the room. “Not much here,” she said. She tilted her head as she examined the gateway. “Kale, why did Regidor weave the word
hope
in there?”

She pointed to the right side of the portal. Kale looked and squinted and tilted her head at the same angle as Toopka’s.

“I don’t see a word.”

Toopka blew out a puff of air that clearly said Kale was blind. Kale’s lips twitched at the girl’s impatience.

The surface of the gateway rippled, riveting Kale’s attention to the portal. She hoped this time her mother and father would step through. She and Toopka had already greeted several wizards, a knight, and a swordsmith. These people reminded Kale of the grim confrontation approaching. She wanted to share the joy of Penn and forget, for the moment, the battle ahead.

She glanced over her shoulder at the curtain. She’d peeked around the edge when she came in and spoken to Regidor. She’d spoken to Gilda as well but received no response.

“Kale.” Her mother stepped through the gateway and embraced her daughter. “Oh, look, isn’t he perfect? Let me hold him. Ouch! What in all of Amara was that for?”

Kale stifled a giggle. “Are you hurt?”

Lyll glared at the blue dragon who puffed up her chest. She looked back at her finger. “Just a pinch.”

“What’s this?” asked Sir Kemry. “A protector dragon? How very convenient. How did you arrange that, my dear? You didn’t say you had kept an egg for such a purpose.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t know you could designate a protector.”

Kemry and Lyll exchanged a glance. Sir Kemry shook his head woefully. “Another instance where our choice of how our daughter would live has caused her education to be insufficient.”

Lyll patted his arm. “We saved her life. She would have had no education at all if Risto had found her and killed her.”

Sir Kemry brightened immediately. “That’s true.” He reached for the baby. “Fly, I’m the grandfather. Behave yourself.”

The blue dragon sulked, head down and wings drooping, but she allowed Penn to be transferred to Kemry and then to Lyll. They cooed over the baby, and he obligingly woke up enough to give them an adorable smile with only a little spot of milky drool at one corner.

A piercing scream shattered the calm. Regidor fell back through the curtain, ripping the material from the bar that held it aloft. Gilda stood on the bed, backed into the corner against the wall. With her hands covering her mouth, she continued the high-pitched screech.

Toopka cowered at the foot of the bed, holding something behind her back.

Sir Kemry’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought Lady Gilda was within a minute of passing on.”

Lady Lyll put a hand over Penn’s ear and pressed his head against her shoulder to muffle the other ear.

Regidor scrambled to his feet, Gilda’s shriek subsided to a loud moan, and she pointed one shaky finger at Toopka. Gilda’s husband lifted her down from the bed, and she cowered in his arms.

“Hmm?” Kale scrutinized the doneel. “Toopka has not done anything particularly naughty in days.”

“That’s unusual,” said Lady Lyll.

“Very,” said Kale.

Kemry chortled. “I believe she’s broken her good behavior streak.”

Kale marched over and crouched beside the trembling child. She schooled her face to be nonthreatening and her voice to be gentle. “What did you do, Toopka?”

Toopka brought her hands out from behind her back. In one rested her egg. “Regidor was asleep.”

Now Regidor guided Gilda to sit on the bed. Her thin body trembled in his arms.

“Regidor slept, and what did you do?” prompted Kale.

“Lady Gilda was pretty. She looked sweet and comfortable, but she wasn’t breathing.”

Kale glanced quickly at the meech lady sitting next to her husband on the side of the bed. Never in all the years she had known Gilda did she ever think the dragon looked “sweet.” “And?”

“I touched her lips with my egg.”

“Why?”

Toopka’s head wobbled back and forth. Her eyes grew bigger. “I don’t know.”

“The egg burned,” gasped Gilda. “My lips burned, and the heat swept through me. The inside of my head held a flame brighter than the sun. My heart contained fire, coals, red hot—” she stopped, closed her eyes, and breathed slowly, evenly, without shuddering. “Wulder spoke to me.”

Her eyes popped open, and she searched the corners of the room. Then her eyes fell to her lap. “He told me I was the most foolish of women, and He would show me His Truth. For a moment I entered into a place of perfect peace and all knowledge. I knew the secrets of the universe. I knew the value of each particle created by Wulder. My own being held a darkness, and I was ashamed.” With tears running down her cheeks, she looked up at Regidor and placed a hand on his cheek. “Wulder gave me a choice. I could stay in that place, and He would treat me with all the love and dignity that I had never earned, or I could come back and demonstrate to others the grace and mercy He’d revealed to me. I love you, Regidor. Will you take me back?”

Kale guided Toopka away from the couple as they embraced. She and her parents left the room. In the plain common room of the meech household, they gathered around Toopka. She still held out her hand. Kale touched the small egg nestled there.

“Cold,” she said.

“Wulder touched Gilda,” said Lady Lyll.

“Yes,” agreed Sir Kemry, “but it appears He used Toopka and this very small egg.”

“Am I in trouble?” asked Toopka.

Kale knelt beside the doneel and wrapped her arms around her. “No, little one. Not at all.”

Kale looked up to see Bardon standing in the door.

“I just happened to be passing and decided to stop by to see my son.” Grinning, he walked to the cradle, stood gazing at the slumbering cherub, then bent to kiss Penn’s fuzzy head. The blond curls looked nothing like Kale’s or his hair.

Kale continued sorting small shirts and britches. “Look at all the clothing the meech ladies brought. They love contributing to Penn’s wardrobe.” Kale stuck her fingers through the seat of one of the garments and laughed. “Of course, I have to stitch the seam where a meech baby’s tail would stick out.”

Bardon glanced up, smiled, and returned to studying the sleeping child. He spoke softly. “We’re making great progress in training the men. Most are seasoned warriors and fall into their roles quite naturally. The younger men are eager and attentive.

“I passed Gilda twice in the streets. Since she insisted on moving out of the gateway chamber, she has mingled on a grand scale.” Bardon stroked Penn’s cheek with a fingertip.

“Are you trying to wake him?” asked Kale.

“Of course not.” Bardon pulled up a chair and sat where he could peer over the edge of the cradle at his son. “Gilda rarely stays in her room, or even in the house. She seems to have decided she is going to meet every meech in the village.”

“She came by here this morning.”

Bardon looked at her expectantly.

“She was nice.” Kale shrugged. “The whole visit was strange. She cooed over Penn. She said her egg was in a building especially designed for keeping the village eggs until the designated years for hatching. She and Regidor are going to choose the first of the three years to have their egg quickened, and she asked me if I would do the honor. Bardon, they’re planning to live here.”

A tap on the door interrupted Bardon’s response.

Sir Dar answered the summons to enter. “Holt is here. He just came through the portal with a surprise.”

“What?” asked Kale and Bardon together.

“He’s brought us the Followers’ Voice.”

As they passed through the common room, Kale noticed Tulanny had dropped the knitting she was working on and bolted for the door.

“Am I right in thinking that Tulanny’s son is the Voice?” she asked.

“Yes,” answered Sir Dar. “He didn’t return to his hometown willingly. Holt has gathered quite a group of men who will have to answer to Paladin for their actions.”

The ground rumbled beneath their feet.

“That’s the first time that has happened in several days.” Bardon grabbed Kale’s moonbeam cape and covered his wife and son. They waited for a minute, expecting a barrage of the small black dragons.

“Perhaps they went south,” suggested Kale after a time.

“Perhaps,” said Sir Dar. “Come to the gateway chamber and meet this crowd Holt has brought us.”

As they walked through the streets, a lehman caught up with them to report to Bardon.

“Sir!” The young marione saluted. “A horde of black dragons attacked the camp outside the mouth of the cave. The assault was unanticipated, and we have a number of casualties.” He stood a little taller, and Kale detected a gleam in his eye. “The entire force against us was slain.”

Bardon saluted. “Thank you, Lehman. Continue with your reports.”

The marione sped off to find the next officer to whom he should relay his news.

“I don’t like this,” said Sir Dar.

“I don’t either,” said Kale. “I don’t like them attacking me, but at least the pattern was predictable.” She paused. “I was going to send Gymn to help, but he is already on his way. Let’s see about Holt, then I’ll go to the camp.”

A tremor vibrated their feet.

“Small,” said Bardon, “but too close to the first one.”

They hurried to the house where Regidor had constructed a gateway. With the owners’ consent, Paladin now used the building as headquarters.

When they came close to the building, they found Lee Ark dividing the prisoners into manageable groups and assigning different squadrons to be in charge of their confinement. An unusual number of kimens also occupied the grounds, and Kale assumed the small people had aided Holt in his capture of the ringleaders.

Kale leaned close to Bardon and whispered, “I wonder where Holt is.”

“I wonder where Tulanny and her son are.”

Sir Dar led the way through the crowd and, with a cursory knock, opened a door to a side room. Paladin bade them to enter.

Paladin sat behind his desk. Tulanny sat weeping beside a stoic meech who seemed not to focus on anything in the room. Several men in echo garb stood away from the others.

Holt leaned against the far wall, a sling on one arm and a bandage around his brow. Kale marveled that he cut a dashing, romantic figure, even with the haggard look of a man straight from battle. Regidor’s presence surprised her.

Paladin stood when he saw Kale enter with her baby. Regidor scooted a chair from the row against the wall and placed it next to Tulanny. Kale took the seat and reached over to hold Tulanny’s hand.

“We have come to a decision,” Paladin said as he again sat behind his desk. “The Voice, whose real name is Dander, will be escorted to my palace and kept in the dungeon. Tulanny will accompany him and live in the palace so that she can be near Dander and be assured of his well-being. Holt has brought us a group of echoes. These men will be incarcerated as well. Holt has also managed to detain a group of men not in the inner circle.”