DragonLight (40 page)

         
52
         

V
ISIT WITH AN
O
LD
M
AN

Paladin walked through the camp after the end of the next attack. The men brought back wood for the fire but no arrows. The moon hovered over the horizon and did not give enough light to see the stubs of their spent arrows. Paladin spoke to the men, praising them for their courage and fortitude. He stopped to comfort those wounded, and he walked by the empty quivers before moving on to the next camp.

“Look,” said a warrior as he brought an armload of wood to feed their fire. “Look at that!”

A hundred arrows stuck like porcupine quills in each quiver. Pitch filled the pots to overflowing.

Mot Angra roared in the distance, and the worn soldiers laughed.

“Come on, you blistering behemoth. We’re ready for you!” yelled one of the men. The warriors around him cheered and fired.

The next attack seemed less frantic than the last, and when Mot Angra passed over again, Bardon knew why. The dragon had run out of scales. The black dragons that attacked right after Paladin passed through the camp had little fire, and their stings only irritated the men’s skin slightly. The last foray consisted of tiny buglike creatures. Most dropped from the air in exhaustion before they got to the camp.

In the morning, scouts scoured the countryside and found no trace of Mot Angra. Paladin called for a meeting of his leaders, and Bardon went down to the village.

“It would be best to attack Mot Angra now, while his defenses are low.” He hit his fist into the palm of his other hand. “We need a library and a good librarian. Regidor?”

“The gateway can be used to go to Fenworth’s library at Bardon’s home. And our talking gateways are working again.”

“Good. See if you can learn anything about this beast. What is its weakness?”

Regidor nodded, stood, and walked out of the room. Bardon wondered as his meech friend bypassed the room where he’d built the portal and went out the front door. Where was he going first before following Paladin’s orders? To see Gilda, Bardon presumed. That would make sense. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. Gilda was no longer a person to avoid.

Paladin’s next instructions could have been issued by any man there. Transport food to the vicinity and move the wounded through the gateway to a more secure location. Replenish the supply of arrows and make ready other weapons. Most importantly, stay alert and patrol the area looking for signs of Mot Angra.

Bardon strode away from headquarters, frustrated and on edge. Filia would go with Regidor through the gateway and help Librettowit search for old lore about the monstrous black dragon. But if the meech had no records, would Librettowit? And hadn’t that avenue been exhausted already? Were they reduced to last-ditch efforts to come up with answers?

He passed Regidor, who gave him a cavalier salute. Filia rode on his shoulder.

“On your way to Librettowit’s library?” asked Bardon.

Regidor winked. “I have researched all the great libraries of Amara. I’ve never seen any literature on Mot Angra. I don’t expect to find any now.”

“Before, you searched for cures for Gilda’s condition.”

“That’s true. Filia and I will dig in the ancient tomes for a bit and then return to aid in a more practical manner.”

“May Wulder surprise you, my friend.” Bardon returned the casual salute and continued toward his goal.

As he marched through the village, he saw different craftsmen set up to do their work. A row of tents accommodated a number of people making arrows. As a bundle of shafts was ready, a child took the bundle to the open-air blacksmith. After he fitted a metal tip on the ends, the child took the unfinished arrows to the artisan who attached the feathers. Other tents had been erected for the making of additional weapons. New bows, darts, hadwigs, torches, staffs, lances, knives, and swords were all being manufactured for the expected battle.

Anxiety raised a frown on Bardon’s face. What good would these types of weapons do against the impenetrable hide of Mot Angra? Knives and swords and poison had not worked before.
Perhaps with his body not covered with scales, we can pierce his skin.

He passed Toopka dressed in mismatched bright colors and playing a game with the meech children. They had drawn squares in the dirt and hopped from one to another in some kind of order Bardon could not decipher.

Paladin’s questions echoed in Bardon’s mind.
How long does it take for Mot Angra to grow another set of scales? Was this set the accumulation of centuries? Does he have any other weapons at his disposal? Does he breathe fire? Will he land and fight the warriors on the ground? And where is he?

Bardon left the village and walked through the forest. He passed the tunnel that led to the outside world. He noted the ease with which he followed the trail through the underbrush of the forest. Many used this old path these days. He paused for quite a while to gaze at the drawing on the exposed wall of the cave. In the sunlight, the vibrant colors shimmered. What type of paint could produce such rich hues? What artist had such skill? Bardon gasped.
It couldn’t be!

He whirled around. No one in sight. He took off down the path to the camp, rushing through the hundred yards, jumping over fallen treetops, knocked down by Mot Angra’s departure.

The first meech he saw when he entered the clearing stood talking to Kale. Bardon ran to them.

“Anyeld, what happened to the wandering painter who came here?”

The astonished expression on Kale’s face made him pause. He looked into her eyes.
What an absurd idea! But I must know.

“Maybe not, Bardon. It’s worth investigating.”

Anyeld’s neck stiffened, but his brow furrowed in puzzlement, not in anger. “He lives miles from here, but still in the canyon. He hasn’t visited the village in a dozen years. What do you want with him? He’s not a friendly sort.”

“He may have answers.”

Anyeld didn’t seem to think that was an absurd notion. “Are you going to visit him?”

“Yes!”

“The fastest way to get there is by boat.”

Kale squeaked in surprise. “Boat?”

Bardon bobbed his head. South of the camp a stream of water sprang from a cluster of rocks in the forest. A small river flowed toward Amara from that point, dividing the forest into two unequal parts.

“Do you have someone to take me?”

“I’m going,” said Kale.

Anyeld nodded. “Ellyk is the most likely guide.”

As Anyeld left to round up Ellyk and rowers for the boat, Bardon felt Kale swoop into his thoughts.

“Oh!” she said aloud and broke into a grin. Then a scowl of concentration pulled on her features. “But how could he be that old? Wouldn’t that be older than Fenworth?”

“I don’t know, Kale.” Bardon hugged her and kissed the little head sticking out of a bundle she wore strapped to her front. “But I’m excited. I think we are going to be surprised by this painter.”

“We should learn his name.”

“Maybe Ellyk and Anyeld know.”

“His name is Kondiganpress,” said Ellyk. He paddled the boat with three other meech. The men worked mostly to steer the vessel. The current provided all the power needed to get them downstream. “We should reach his place in an hour.”

“Can you tell us anything more about him?” asked Kale.

“He’s old. He’s humble. He claims his ancestors came from this area. He’s traveled a lot. He’ll quicken the eggs if we press him to do so. He prefers to be left alone.”

When they knocked on the door in midafternoon, Kondiganpress opened it promptly. Short and round, the man looked like he could block a bull from escaping his pen. He wore rough, but clean, clothes, and his long gray hair was braided, including his mustache and beard.

“So, you’re Kale,” he said with only a slight softening of his expression.

Kale kept her thoughts to herself.
A smile must not visit this tumanhofer’s face very often.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

Kale, Bardon, and Ellyk stepped into the wooden frame house. The rather shabby home stood flush against the wall of the canyon. A double door in the back wall opened into a cave. A door on each side indicated two more rooms in the forefront of the tumanhofer habitat.

Kondiganpress pointed at the baby carried against Kale’s chest by a long swath of material tied together in a sling. “Is this the girl?”

“No,” said Kale as her eyes roved over the rough, painted walls. Her face appeared on every bare piece of wood. “You were expecting us?”

“Well, I figured I’d meet you someday. And lately, I got the impression you’d be coming here. Your face is the last vision Wulder has given me. And it seems He wants me to get it right, because I’ve seen it day and night in all sorts of ways. I’m glad you’re here. Possibly Wulder will give me a rest now.”

“Do you know what my wife’s role is in this vision?” Bardon asked.

“Just what you see her doing. Looking on, always watching.”

Bardon dragged his eyes away from the walls and spoke to the recluse. “We’re in need of information.”

“I’ll tell you what I can, but I don’t have any fresh visions for you other than your wife and the girl. And since this baby isn’t the girl, I don’t know what I can tell you about that.”

“What does this girl look like?” asked Kale.

“Can’t tell you much other than she wears dresses and is quick moving. If Wulder wanted me to see more, I would.”

“We’re interested in the past,” Bardon clarified.

Kondiganpress motioned to his chairs. “Have a seat. You might wonder why a man on his own has ten chairs. It’s because I’m a painter, not a chair-maker. Every year or so I make a chair. Haven’t made a comfortable one yet. A couple of them fell apart. But I do make a good cup of hot brew from a bush that grows in these parts. Sit down, and I’ll see if I can find enough cups.”

Bardon directed Kale to the most comfortable, sturdy-looking chair. She sat and undid the baby’s sling so she could turn him around to sit in her lap. He seemed happy with his surroundings. Fly stood guard on Kale’s shoulder, eying everyone in the room with suspicion except her baby’s parents.

“Mot Angra is loose,” Bardon said.

“I figured as much,” Kondiganpress said. “The ground shaking more and more often, then the bigger quake, and then nothing. Wasn’t hard to figure out.”

Bardon leaned forward. “What can you tell us about the dragon?”

“My family worked a mine here when the gateway opened to another world and poured forth a strange—no offense to you, young man—group of people.” Kondiganpress winked at Ellyk. “Large and small, some of the small ones were all colors of the rainbow. The smallest looked like mice, but they spoke and wore clothes after a fashion.” The tumanhofer looked in his one cabinet and pulled out five cups. He put them in a sink and proceeded to wash them.

“Of course, that was several generations ago. Seems each generation of Kondiganpress loses some of the talent for painting. I’m poor at my art, indeed, when you compare my splotches to the one on the cave wall up in Arreach. Some say Wulder Himself held my ancestor’s hand as he drew what Wulder commanded. I can’t compare with that genius. But my family passes down stories better than it passes down the artist gift, so I know a bit from the tales about those times in the distant past.”