DragonLight (41 page)

“Do you have any knowledge that will help us defeat Mot Angra?”

The old man sat in a chair beside his table. He shook his head as he fingered the teapot handle. “The most important piece of information I have for you is from the future, given to me by Wulder.”

“What is that?”

“A little girl will carry the only weapon that can defeat this evil. She will carry it into battle.”

Kale cleared her throat. She nodded toward an unfinished painting that she could see from her chair. “Behind the door. That silhouette. Why haven’t you finished it?”

He rose and shuffled to the cave entrance. “I don’t have a clear picture in my head.” He closed the door, exposing the short image.

“We could possibly introduce you to the one you are trying to paint,” said Kale. “Her name is Toopka.”

         
53
         

A D
EFINITE
C
LUE

They couldn’t return. Bardon stomped through the underbrush and fumed over the loss of the boat. He sent Mikkai downstream to search the banks. A quake had disturbed their tea and evidently knocked the boat from its mooring.

He returned to the shack. At his request, Kale set up the talking gateway, and Bardon sat before the contraption. “I can’t say that we’ve gained a lot of knowledge that will help us in our battle against Mot Angra.” He spoke to the empty shell of the portal. They hadn’t tried it since the disintegration of Kale’s abilities had reversed.
Even if this doesn’t get through, it’s of little consequence. What is the most important thing we’ve learned? That a silhouette that could be Toopka is the old man’s prediction of who will win the day against all evil.

“Paladin, I’m bringing Kondiganpress with us when we return tomorrow. I’ve made no sense of his comments, but perhaps you will gain an insight I cannot fathom.”

Kondiganpress entertained them all evening with stories of his travels as well as legends of Mot Angra. Bardon noticed a subtle coolness on the part of the tumanhofer toward the meech, but as a host, Kondiganpress offered as much as he was able. Providing some of the ingredients out of her cape’s hollows, Kale fixed a dinner that the old artist enjoyed.

The meech set up tents outside the ramshackle house. When Kale and Bardon retired for the night, their familiar tent felt like home. Penn drank his dinner and cooed for his father before drifting off to sleep.

In the morning an excited Mikkai returned to the camp and led Anyeld and Ellyk to recover the boat.

When Kale opened the talking gateway, a message from Regidor waited. “We’re back in Bility. Wizard Cam is here, along with most of the other wizards you could name. Be careful in your travels. An influx of dangerous creatures has caused alarm.”

“Well, that certainly helped,” said Kale as she searched for another message. “Cryptic. I could shake a knot in him. Does he mean quiss and mordakleeps in the waters? Are there snakes or bears or bisonbecks and grawligs? Bah! I won’t think of it. His message was designed to upset me.”

Bardon rolled up a blanket and added it to a stack they were packing. “I don’t think so, Kale. It’s just his way. Either the list was too long to go into, or the reports are unsubstantiated, and he doesn’t want to guess what might be out there.”

Kale gave him a look of disgust. “Was that supposed to comfort me? Ease my stress? Mollify my concerns?”

Bardon scooped up his son and made faces at him. “Mommy is fussing at Daddy. Take note, Penn. This is because Mommy is worried, not because Daddy is a callous rat. She’ll do this to you someday. ‘From a stew of dismay comes the taste of bitterness.’”

Penn gurgled.

“Just so, we shall, nonetheless, keep our weapons within reach.”

Hours later, Bardon stepped off the boat onto a dock near the head of the river. He turned to help Kale out with little Penn. Rowing upstream had been arduous, but Ellyk said trying to make a path through the forest would have taken longer. With Regidor’s warning in his mind, Bardon had decided the boat provided a more strategic defense from any approaching wild animals. They encountered nothing out of the ordinary.

Bardon thanked the meech who had taken them on the trip. He took Kale by the elbow and guided Kondiganpress up the trail to the first camp. As soon as they broke through the trees and into the clearing, a small crowd of people, all talking at once, surrounded them.

Sir Kemry waded through and grabbed Bardon’s and Kale’s arms. “Come with me. I’m sure you can’t make heads nor tails of this babble.” He addressed those around him. “Thank you, friends. I’ll be sure to give them all the details. Back to your work. Remember, we have no time to waste.”

He hurried them and Kondiganpress into the tent where the leaders of Paladin’s army gathered. Whatever meeting had taken place recently had adjourned. A few officers studied a map. The substation headquarters was almost deserted.

Lyll circled the cluster of tables to greet them. “Start with the good news, Kem.” Lyll bustled over to a small iron stove no bigger than a space heater. A kettle steamed on the flat top.

Kemry ushered them to a table. He noticed Kondiganpress for the first time and thrust his hand forward. “Welcome. I’m Kemry. You must be Kondiganpress, the mural painter.”

“That I am.”

“Paladin will want to meet you, but first let me fill you in, along with my daughter and son-in-law.” He sat down across the table from the others. “The good news is that the riding dragons have begun to arrive from Amara.”

Bardon raised an eyebrow. “That’s the extent of the good news?”

“Yes.” Sir Kemry looked grim. “The riding dragons will be useful in battle and in keeping track of how the battle goes. A view from above is always helpful.”

Bardon nodded. “I don’t feel Greer anywhere close.”

“No. I believe the dragons of the Northern Reach are coming to our aid.”

“The bad news,” Lyll reminded her husband as she arrived with a tray of tea.

Kemry charged on. “Wicked things are pouring out of the hills, congregating on the plain directly east of us. Grawligs, renegade bisonbecks, schoergs and stinger schoergs, blimmets, and the fiercest of the woodland animals—bears, cats, and boars.

“I guess you could say the good news is that they fight among themselves, killing the weakest. Not good—that leaves the strongest to do whatever evil they’ve been called to. But even now they are still skirmishing for dominance. We could hope they’ll kill one another off and leave only battle-weary foes to face us.”

Lyll sat down and took sleeping Penn to rest on her shoulder. “And, of course,” she said, “we haven’t located Mot Angra. That’s a bit of a problem.” She looked at the tumanhofer.

“I’m no help to you, milady. I’ve just come to see the fruition of my vision. I’ve never seen one come to pass.”

The night before, Kale told Kondiganpress about her adventures and how the scenes in his murals had shown up in her life. “I don’t understand this mural we saw in Arreach.”

The tumanhofer laughed, a self-deprecating sound. “I never understand any of them.”

They walked through the woods to Bility and introduced Kondiganpress to Paladin. The two men settled down for a talk in Paladin’s strategy room.

Kale caught Bardon’s hand. “Let’s look for Toopka.”

They found Sir Dar sitting on a log and watching a group of five children play. Three meech, Sittiponder, and Toopka had a ball to kick back and forth. The game seemed to be roughly based on the Amaran ribbets.

“I’m trying to analyze how Toopka has changed,” Sir Dar said as soon as they sat beside him.

Mikkai flew down the street and landed on Bardon’s shoulder.

“This is interesting,” he said after deciphering his minor dragon’s excited chatter.

Kale stood. “Come, Sir Dar. Mikkai has something to show us on the map.”

They raced back to the village headquarters and found Paladin still talking to Kondiganpress.

“Pardon the interruption, sir,” said Bardon. “Mikkai has something of importance to show us on the map.”

Paladin gestured them toward the table spread with charts. Bardon shuffled through them until he found the one he had drawn with Mikkai’s direction. He spread it out, and the minor dragon hopped down and stood on a ridge that made up one of five north of their current location.

“Mikkai has been scouting the area every day,” Bardon explained. “He kept going back to this region because there was something peculiar he could not discern. Today, he saw clearly that this ridge has moved.”

“Mountains don’t move except in earthquakes,” said Kondiganpress.

“This mountain apparently got up, turned around, and settled back down.”

Paladin smiled. “Like a restless animal in its sleep.”

“Like a dragon,” said Bardon.

Mikkai chirruped and did a flip, landing again on the ridge.

         
54
         

A W
ALK IN THE
D
ARK

Bardon stood with a number of Paladin’s officers and knights on a rise of land to the south of the battlefield. He surveyed the placement of troops. The light of a few kimen dotted each unit of the regular army. Wizards in their long, flashy robes also stood among those who would fight with sword and arrow. Brunstetter had placed his giant troops in lines among the smaller warriors.

By Paladin’s order, his troops faced the sleeping dragon in a horseshoe with the slope of the hills behind them. The first line of soldiers battled creatures prowling in the open fields. As the men approached the area at dawn, the sight and smell of carnage greeted them.

The beasts had slaughtered one another in a frenzy. Only a minor portion of the animals still capable of killing remained. Bisonbecks and grawligs trudged among them, slaughtering the weak and injuring those who attacked. However, former warriors and mountain ogres decreased in numbers steadily as well. An irrational rage pitted them against one another as well as the beasts.

The troops of Paladin’s army took their positions and dealt with this wild menagerie. The animals lost interest in one another and attacked the forces of good. When the first line of defense grew weary, a new set of warriors took its place.

“This is unlike any battle I have ever seen,” said Paladin. “Our enemies walk up to us as if to request being killed. They don’t surrender. They just keep throwing themselves at our weapons.”

Brunstetter sat so he was closer in height with the other generals. “It appears to be a campaign without strategy. No one is in charge. No one directs their assaults.”

Bardon gripped the hilt of his sword. “Perhaps Mot Angra creates a madness around him that only death can acquit.”

Paladin turned to one of his messengers. “Give my order. All men are to keep their thoughts stayed on Wulder. We shall keep this mania from spreading to our troops.”

The young marione saluted and ran to deliver the command.

“It will be an easy fight to win,” said Lee Ark. “But it feels more like a massacre than a battle against reasoning opponents.”

Paladin’s eyes swept over the blood-soaked plain. “Keep offering the races capable of logic an opportunity to surrender.” He sighed as if his heart broke. “And slay those who attack.”

Wizard Cam Ayronn pointed to the dark mountain ridge they now knew to be a dragon in disguise. “The only purpose I can see in this confrontation is that Mot Angra is allowed to sleep without interference. We are busy swatting gnats, albeit big nasty gnats, while the larger threat does what? Grows more scales? Replenishes his strength? Sleeps and dreams of more iniquity?” The lake wizard swung his arm around to indicate the malevolent forces across the plain. He showered water on those around him. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Paladin frowned. “I’m sending a squadron of emerlindians to investigate the condition of the dragon’s scale armor. For the time being we can only watch and wait.”

As the sun reached its zenith, Paladin’s men hauled corpses off the battlefield to a huge funeral pyre. The low races were cremated on one pile of wood and the vicious animals on another. The kimens took over the maintenance of both flames. So much blood soaked the wood that it took an effort to keep the blaze hot enough to do the unpleasant job.

By late afternoon, the battlefield held no foes but the wounded. Remarkably, when Paladin’s men went out to gather in the injured and provide them care, the remnant of evil persisted. With their last breaths, they fought. Some succeeded in inflicting gashes upon the hands that would aid them. In the end, no prisoners were taken.

At dusk the party of three emerlindians ventured up the side of the sleeping dragon’s form. The wizards produced spyglasses through which the reconnaissance team’s progress could be followed. They crept to a point where a thrust of a spear would open the jugular vein on a lesser creature.

“No,” whispered Bardon as he gazed with one eye through the spyglass. “Don’t attempt it.” He observed a second man arguing with the first.

All three emerlindians started to descend down the monster’s side. Mot Angra raised his head and shook the men off. The dragon’s glistening yellow eyes scoured the surroundings. He snatched up one victim, tossed his head back, and swallowed him.

Bardon’s fingers clinched around the metal tube in his hand. He ground his teeth and moved the glass to observe Mot Angra’s face. Bardon noted the dragon squinted as he searched for more prey.

Could it be that light somehow is our weapon? So far he’s only flown at night. He was in that dark dungeonlike cave. Kale first noticed problems producing light when we came closer to Mot Angra. But now the wizards are having no trouble with anything to do with light wizardry. Logic does not seem to be part of this equation.

He watched the two remaining emerlindians crawl slowly toward safety, holding his breath each time their cover became scarce. The sun continued its descent, coloring the sky with rich red, streaks of orange, and a layer of pink disappearing into deep purple in the higher heavens.

Mot Angra raised his upper body on his front legs, stretched his neck, and roared, “You dare to approach me!”

The dry leaves on the autumn trees shook. Some brittle leaves broke off and drifted to earth. The dark dragon heaved his hindquarters to a stand. Sturdy legs stamped the ground as if shaking away all drowsiness. The sky provided a colorful backdrop to the enormous silhouette of Mot Angra. He stretched his wings, then folded them against his body. He bellowed once more and shook. Small, immature scales fell. The ones that hit the stones beneath the dragon clattered. Some flew a short distance and faltered. The dragon laughed.

“Patience,” he said in a gravelly voice, “was never my virtue.”

He spied movement in the grass and froze as he eyed his quarry. His head darted out, and he seized another of the emerlindians.

Bardon swung his glass around and located the last man. He hid beneath an outcropping of rock. “Just have the nerve to stay there, and you might survive,” he advised the man who could not hear him.

The dragon smacked his lips. “Just in case you think I need my scale fliers to do my dirty work—” He roared again and spewed out a stream of fire that blasted the unit of Paladin’s army to his right. The men and equipment went up in flames. The nearest unit rushed in to pull survivors toward safety. The line of defense reacted by backing out of range and reforming. As he watched their movements, Mot Angra rumbled with laughter.

The sun sank behind the mountains. The two pyres lit the gory scene. Perhaps the wild creatures had been right in insisting on death rather than face this horror.

Mot Angra took a step forward and devastated another segment of Paladin’s army with the torch from his mouth. He sat back then and shook out his wings as if he’d done no more than blow sand off a plate.

Bardon’s instructions to his men had been to aim for the tender parts of the dragon’s face, his eyes, his nose, inside his ears.
Can they get close enough for even a few lucky strikes?

The dragon stretched forth his neck and fed on the charred corpses left where they had fallen. He ate loudly, chomping and smacking his lips. With a body dangling from his mouth, he lifted his head and peered across the field.

Bardon turned to see what had caught his attention. Emerging from the line of warriors, a parade of sorts glowed. Dressed again in light, a group of kimens surrounded three figures in the center. Their clothing once again flashed hues of gold and silver.

Bardon lifted his glass to one eye. Toopka marched in the center. Her hands cupped the egglike stone Wulder had plucked from her chest, and she held it in front of her as if she were bringing a present. On one side, Sittiponder, with a face grim and resolute, accompanied her. He had a drawn sword, and the blade either gleamed on its own or reflected the light from the kimens. On the other side, Gilda towered over those around her. She also brandished a long shining sword.

Mot Angra tossed his charred meat in the air, caught it, and swallowed the tidbit. He then tilted his head and examined the approaching company. “Oh, ho! What is this? Do you send me martyrs? I have to warn you, I don’t believe in sacrifices to appease my appetite. I shall eat your fools, then ravage the rest of you.”

Toopka lifted her chin. “I bring you a gift.”

Remarkably, her voice boomed across the land, much as Mot Angra’s voice. Was it natural amplification? Bardon twisted his head and saw nothing that would magnify sound such as a backdrop of a solid cliff. Wizard Namee was present. Did he provide this amplification? Or was it Wulder? At the thought of Wulder actively participating in this spectacle, Bardon’s heart lifted.

Bardon felt his arm jostled. He looked down to find Kale at his side. Regidor stepped up beside him. Both wore grim expressions. The moon on Kale’s face showed her pale complexion. Her expression remained remarkably calm. The paintings on old Kondiganpress’s walls came to life as she blinked back a tear. What had the old tumanhofer said? Her duty in this confrontation was to watch.

“A gift?” mocked Mot Angra. “How droll! Do you bring me a golden toothpick to clean your brothers from my molars? Do you bring me a stove in which to cook them? Perhaps a set of cutlery so I may sit at a table and display my manners?”

“It is an egg.”

The dragon’s booming laughter shook the very earth beneath the feet of Paladin’s army. As he guffawed, Toopka and her entourage advanced.

When he drew ragged breaths and again focused on the marching oddity, he wheezed, “You grow dangerously close, little people.” He giggled. “And tall madam.”

“If you eat the egg willingly, Wulder will relieve you of your heartache, your sorrows, your pain, and give you beauty in return.”

“Wulder? Ah, Wulder has offered me similar propositions in the past. If I do this, He will do that. I’ll have none of it, little doll. You will be the beauty I devour, and my supposed suffering will continue. It does not bother me much.”

The egg in Toopka’s hand flashed a bright light at his words.

“You lie,” said Toopka. The kimens’ clothing lost the subtle yellow and gray of metallic coloring and blazed a white so pure Bardon blinked and squinted to see.

Toopka’s voice rang through the dazzling display. “Should you swallow the egg unwillingly, you will die.”

Mot Angra turned his face away from the glare. Toopka’s small force was now within a hundred yards of the beast.

“You tire me,” he growled. “I’ll eat you and spit out your egg.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that easy.”

Something in the childish tone reminded Bardon of the little girl Toopka weaseling an extra treat out of Taylaminkadot. He took a step forward, but both Kale and Regidor grabbed his arms.

“She must do this,” Kale whispered. “I finally recognize what I should have seen long ago. The egg is the light of this world, Truth.”

The dragon roared. Flame singed the air. His pointed incisors glimmered in the light of both death fires and a child’s hope. He gnashed his teeth and swung his head over the approaching force twice. On the third swing he opened his maw and snatched as many of the party as he could.

The watching crowd gasped. Most of the kimens had fallen, their light clothing extinguished.

Toopka, Sittiponder, and Gilda were gone.

Mot Angra stomped his feet, howled with his chin pointed to the stars, and steamed from his nostrils, his mouth, his ears, and even his eyes.

Bardon put his arm around Kale as tears streamed down his face. He looked at Regidor’s expression and felt his resignation to accept Wulder’s will. A flash of anger seared Bardon’s heart but quickly lost its heat.
I cannot quote Your principles day in and day out and not trust Your hand to bring forth Your best for us. But it is hard, Wulder. It is hard.

The beast’s next scream, a keening yowl, made everyone cover their ears. Silence followed. Mot Angra’s black skin let off a vapor smelling of the sweetness that threatened to close their throats. Paladin ordered his men to place a cloth over the lower half of their faces. The instruction rippled through the units. Some saw their comrades with the white handkerchief from a distance and followed suit.