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“Wow!” cried Kelvion. “Look at Nimshar’s tree house? What do you think happened to it?”

Marblin’s face was pasty white. “Great King, protect us from evil spirits of this dark wood,”

he prayed in shaky tones.

“Unbelievable,” remarked Warnyck. He shook his head, blinking.

“Very odd,” Barag rumbled in agreement. He gasped the suggestion, “Perhaps we should get moving.”

Everyone agreed.

The Father of the Forest?
Loric questioned.

Our Father was tortured to death by men wishing to be dragons!
Dimwood answered.
Set
ablaze, he was, long, long ago.

Spirit Men did this evil?
Loric inquired.

Aye!
was the grating reply.
The same. A pack of tortured humans. Powerful and strong, they
are. Vengeance is denied us.

“Let us be on our way,” Loric affirmed.

The companions hoisted packs and Loric focused his attention on nettlesome briers of

Dimwood Forest. He joined his mind with sticky tendrils and drew them aside. His friends followed him into the gloomy wood, with the veil of spiked vines closing at their backs and blocking their last confused stares at the ruined tower that was Nimshar’s home.

Loric led the way. Warnyck marched alongside him, using the map to set their course.

Kelvion walked behind them. Barag was next in line and Marblin reluctantly filled the role of rear guard.

The forest was as tense as ever, but they heard no sounds from Spirit Men, no whispers. The silence of those uncanny voices concerned Loric. He felt assured that Spirit Men were still tracking his party’s movements. He sought insight from Dimwood’s plantain, but that forest growth remained mum.

That worry aside, the first day of the southeastward trek went smoothly. The party moved steadily toward a branch of the Enchanted River that Sir Palendar had marked as
Venom Stream.

By the time they made camp that night, they knew their decision to keep their breaks short had been rewarded, because the constant trickle of water over rocks informed them that they had achieved their first goal. The cut of the Venom would help them stay true to their course.

Loric was eager for the dawn of a new day. That he and his friends had put the greater length of their two-day march behind them further fueled his anxiousness. The Venom Stream led the rest of the way to the Blood of Logant, whatever the nature of that stain on the map.

There they expected to find the long-forgotten Dragon’s Eye: the mystical stone that had given the Sword of the Dragon’s Eye its unquenchable fire.
Will another clue be waiting there for us?

Loric dreaded that possibility.

Loric accepted first watch. His companions settled down quickly that night, willingly taking advantage of their leader’s generous offer to guard their camp from surprise intrusions. Loric paced about the site, unable to sit due the energy coursing through him. Thanks to the quest before him, the son of Palendar had found new hope in a seemingly hopeless situation. He understood implications of recovering the Dragon’s Eye, for it brought him and his companions closer to sending Turtioc of Nindronburg and his barbarian hordes toppling from glories to which they had ascended with theft and dishonor. Loric was eager to save Avalana from the grasp of that barbarian leader, and in doing so, prevent his countrymen falling under the rule of the usurper, who would begin his wicked reign of dragon worship.

What should happen after that?
Loric thought.
Do I then hand the Sword of the Dragon’s
Eye over to Lord Garrick, a man who may have ordered the firing of my village and the
slaughter of my people, my parents included? Even if he did not order that slaughter, his son did.

That son is the Prince of Durbansdan, who stands to inherit his father’s title, whether as lord or
king.

Loric fiercely jabbed the Sword of Logant into the ground, a man’s length from the fire.

There he knelt to take up earnest watch, using Knight Vision to see all that moved round about camp. A slow watch left him alone with his questions for too long at one sitting. He rose and paced, considering the map. Most especially, he pondered a line of knights and their blood, which his father had charted as a place.
Blood of Logant,
he thought, withdrawing his map from his cloak for another futile look, as he had done dozens of times this watch. His eyes bore into the dot that marked his family line on the map. In the light of the fire, the mark looked blood red.

I wonder....

Loric made to draw a sharp breath, but he remained breathless, gasping for air to fill the void that excitement created in his chest. His knees were weak and stringy, causing him to fall hard before the sword of his fathers. “All right,” he gasped, as he used his sword hilt to struggle from all fours to his knees. He held the map shakily before him. He drew another breath in a hopeless attempt to calm his nerves. Then he swiped his finger along the blade of his weapon. Adrenaline caused him to exert more pressure than he meant to apply, so that he nearly cut himself to the bone. The knight clenched his finger in his fist to shut off free flow of his blood. Then Loric stretched forth his hand, until his cut was poised above Sir Palendar’s secret mark on the map....

and he let loose a drop of his blood--the Blood of Logant.

Loric’s field of vision blurred, starting with the diamond hilt of his father’s sword. Then it bolted into a streak of motion, as from riding horseback, only everything moved at an accelerated rate. Moreover, his world was rolling in reverse frames. With surprising suddenness, his view of his surroundings jolted to a halt. It was full daylight. Loric was on a rocky height he had never known. The map was unchanged. His new setting caused him to focus on the Sword of Logant for a look. Loric made to grasp the hilt for security. The knight paused. His hand hung above the pommel.

Each facet of the diamond before him was set to a different image. Each image was frozen in state of stillness. Loric’s fingertips were drawn to the gemstone before him, his amazement piquing with his curiosity over this strange phenomenon. A drop of his blood rolled from his cut and dangled for an instant.... then it plunged to strike the dazzling multi-faceted wonder set into the Sword of Logant....

****

“Father?” Loric questioned.

There was no reply, only a continuation of images designed to give him direction. Rocky heights, like unto the Lost Hills, perhaps a part of those rocky mounds, flashed before Loric.

There was a waterfall and a bubbling pool, where the stream ended, but for a trickle. Dampness and darkness followed, only to have a monster in the hollows chase it away.

“I name you second keeper, Mighty Ungertakkus!” proclaimed the voice of young Palendar.

With those words, Loric saw a flash of red between two hands, which set something that shimmered into a natural bowl atop a short stalagmite column. As quickly as it appeared before Loric, it was gone. There was another glimpse of the great beast Ungertakkus, which looked like a cross between a giant lizard and an eel, and then there was darkness.... a forward blur.... a jolt....

****

clenching his cut finger. Dimwood was dark and chill. Its voice was wild and shrill. For all of his panting, Loric could not catch his breath. His heart was racing. His hand was wet with blood from the cut on his finger.

A monster guards the stone,
Loric thought.
That only makes sense, if father wished to keep
the Dragon’s Eye from his betrayers,
he reasoned.

Loric calmed his racing heart and wrapped his finger, before he passed sentry duty to Warnyck and lay down to sleep. His dreams held indecipherable messages, from which he learned nothing useful. Loric rested well in spite of his dreams, or rather, because of their broken states.

Loric had cakes for breakfast, but he spoke nothing of what the Blood of Logant had shown him. Instead, he waited in thoughtful silence, considering what was best for his party, and him and the quest, while his fellow adventurers debated the meaning of Sir Palendar’s cryptic notation. Uncertainty still reigned supreme in Loric’s mind when his friends were ready to leave.

Loric grabbed his bag to go. “Let us find the Dragon’s Eye Stone,” he said confidently, to cheer his men.

Kelvion stared at him blankly. The boy’s eyes were alive with fire.

Warnyck and Barag looked at him as if to say,
We needed your reassurance.

Marblin seemed troubled, but he spoke nothing of what matter worried him.

“We will all come through these challenges ahead,” Loric kindly offered. “I would lay down all of my hopes for Beledon to make sure none of you should come to harm.”

“Your way of thinking must change,” Warnyck challenged him.

Loric stiffened. “How so?”

“Without you, the Dragon’s Eye will remain hidden,” Warnyck shared. “I have come to

think that your blood is paramount to this quest. It seems ridiculous that Sir Palendar would put it in plain writing on his map, but therein is the cleverness of it, the beauty-”

“Let us move along,” Loric interrupted the scout, before he could convince others amongst the party of his theory. He jammed his hands into his armpits, but the scout’s eyes followed his wrapped finger.

“Are we almost there?” Kelvion squeaked, appearing nervous. “I had a dream-”

“Not to worry, little fellow,” Barag assured him, before Loric could speak those exact thoughts, “we will keep you safe.”

“You are but another reason we must succeed in our quest,” Loric encouraged the boy. Loric looked Marblin in the eye to challenge him and said, “It is important that, no matter what lies ahead of us, we should keep our composure and be brave and true in our hearts.” He made a slow, subtle nod toward the Moonwatcher and shifted his dragon eyes to Kelvion. “We must do our duty.”

Thankfully, Marblin took the challenge to heart. The old guardsman reached for his sword, that he might hold it aloft and proclaim their coming victory. Unfortunately, his hand caught in his tunic, he stumbled, and in his effort to recover, he bit his tongue.
“Ah,
we will prevail,” he spat in frustration.

So began their final trek to the lair marked
Blood of Logant.
The companions sped along the path that Loric opened before them, driven to reach their destination while there was still light enough to find the designated place. The companions arrived at the spot Loric had seen by his blood, but the sun was resting low atop the hills, looking very much like the radiant face of those hulking, rocky heights. There he found the exact scene from Sir Palendar’s memory.

The Venom Stream dove fifty feet into a small, bubbly pool. The base of the rocky waterfall served as the mouth of a mound that
chug-a-lugged
the splashing flow of the Venom down into the hollows, with only a trickle of residual runoff. Judging by the fact that Sir Palendar’s map showed the Venom continuing its course beyond the Blood of Logant, the companions concluded that it flowed underground.

“The cavern entrance is close,” Loric said.

“Cavern?” Barag questioned.

Warnyck cocked a questioning eyebrow toward his leader.

Marblin dug around in his pack, saying, “We will need a light.” When he found his flints, he put them on display like a pair of freshly hooked bass and added, “We will have it too.”

“Keep those secure in your pocket in case we should need them,” Loric advised. In

explanation he offered, “Our entrance is through water, which is sure to snuff out your light.”

“Besides,” Warnyck shared, “there is no need for light, when Loric sees in the dark.”

Loric sometimes forgot his new ability, his curse. “Yes,” he agreed with a mild nod of affirmation.

“Yes, yes,” Marblin said in sudden remembrance. “Of course,” he added absently.

“Once we are inside, we will go by twos,” Loric told his companions. “I will lead, and Warnyck will take the rear with Kelvion. The man behind me is to take hold of my shirttail.

Whoever is directly behind him is to grab his, and so on. That way no one will get lost down there.”

“Good idea!” Barag agreed heartily.

Warnyck and Marblin each cast a vote of accord before Warnyck proposed, “But we need to first set our goals in order, do we not? After all, we cannot enter the cavern before climbing down to it any more than the cart can pull the horse.”

Kelvion giggled wildly.

The others joined the boy in his laughter at the scout’s good-humored observation.

“You are always quick to set us aright, friend scout,” Marblin pointed out with a final chuckle.

“How about setting us on a safe path down to that pool?” Barag boomed. “I don’t much like the look of that descent, anyway, but I certainly don’t care to grope my way down there in the dark.”

“Yes,” Loric concurred. “Shirttails, cliff faces and darkness won’t likely come together to make a successful end to our quest.”

Even as Loric concluded his statement, the world around his party dimmed noticeably. “I fear we are too late to try this evening,” Warnyck shared glumly.

The companions followed the imaginary line from the scout’s finger to the yellow-limned face of orange that was rolling back from those hilly shoulders above them. Marblin hung his head and grumbled, “Another cursed night in Dimwood.”

Barag said nothing, but the flab of his cheeks hung more heavily than usual as he stood gaping after vanishing daylight. “Sleep well, Solari,” he murmured. Then, She was gone.

“The minutes that remain to us are far too short to make this treacherous descent,” Loric admitted. “We must make camp.” Privately he cursed.
Another day lost!
He had to bite back his words so hard that his teeth hurt. Sands were slipping through the mighty hourglass, and with each turn of that timepiece, Turtioc was strengthening his hold on Durbansdan and Beledon.