Dragons of the Valley (31 page)

“I’m sorry there is not more for you. We are sorely in need of supplies.”

“I thank you,” said Bealomondore. “And my dragons say they will eat enough to recover a bit, then see if they can rid your tent of some of the bugs that have gathered.”

“That would be wonderful. The healing dragons work until they can’t tend another soldier. They’re too tired to forage.”

Bealomondore forced down the dry bread and meat, rinsed his mouth by swishing the last of the water through his teeth, and leaned back against a stack of rolled blankets. The day was hot and the humidity
high. He’d be more comfortable if he removed his jacket, but he closed his eyes instead.

Tipper shook him awake some time later. “Paladin has come with supplies. He’s in the strategy tent with King Yellat and the high command. My grandfather is muttering about your father and the family’s mine. I think you should go.”

She helped him to his feet, then handed him a drink. “Paladin brought water, food, and medical supplies. My grandfather chastised him for not bringing weapons.”

Bealomondore sighed and handed back the empty mug. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Tipper leaned down to kiss his cheek.

“Don’t,” Bealomondore protested. “I am covered with battle muck.” She straightened, and he regretted his harsh response. “I’ve been killing, Princess Tipper. I fear the stain on my soul is worse than the stain on my clothes.”

She looked around the huge tent at beds occupied by wounded men. “It’s hard, but King Odidoddex has proven he is a harsh ruler in his own land. To allow him to seize more power would not be right.”

Bealomondore put his hand on his sword hilt and knew he was only alive because of the wizard’s gift.

“I should clean up before I enter the strategy tent.”

“I think it is more important for you to go while they are still plotting the next move our army will make.”

Bealomondore left and crossed their encampment to the tent where the high command gathered around a table covered with maps. Two guards briefly stalled him at the door, but he was admitted at King Yellat’s approval.

He stood back against the wall with the other low-ranking officers who would be required to take news to their commanders. In the center
of the room, five men examined one huge map. Bealomondore saw it was the territory they now defended. Or were trying to defend. They had been pushed back three times in as many days. The opposing force, besides being stronger, outmaneuvered them.

King Yellat and his advisors discussed the advantages of pulling back to the south or to the east.

General Commert pointed to the eastern route. “If we remove to the Hanson Valley, the Perchant Crags will protect our flank.”

“This invader came over the Mordack Mountains,” said General Orchin. “What makes you think they can’t handle the tangle of cliffs and crevices presented there?” He pointed to the thin strip of rocky terrain. “It’s only a matter of a mile or so across.”

“As the bird flies,” said General Commert. “It’s a two-day struggle for a man.”

“But,” said General Orchin, “we would be leading the enemy toward a populated area. If we go south, the battlefield will be pastures and cropland. East is crowded with villages and townships.”

The king cast an angry glare at his commanders. “Perhaps if their homes are threatened, more men will volunteer to repel the intruders.”

Paladin’s jaw worked. Bealomondore wondered what words he chewed instead of spitting out. King Yellat had pointedly told the young emerlindian that his advice, based on extensive reading, was not appreciated. For weeks, Paladin had unobtrusively provided for the men at the front lines.

The third commander, General Fitz, held up a hand. “South we can see their approach, but we are also exposed. I say east is the best route.” He gestured toward the cluster of populated areas. “We will be closer to supplies as well, and there are a multitude of roads to aid in our movements.”

Paladin broke his silence. “I can provide supplies whichever direction
you choose. I agree with General Orchin, there is no need to bring the war to the doorstep of civilian homes.”

King Yellat squared his shoulders. “We could also make the argument that we are putting the army directly between Odidoddex’s forces and the towns. We are thereby protecting our citizenry.” He glared at Paladin. “We go east.” He waved a hand of dismissal. “Bealomondore, I will speak with you. The rest of you come back in thirty minutes with strategies for tomorrow’s campaign.”

The room cleared quickly. Bealomondore waited. The king came straight to the point.

“I am sending you to speak to your father.”

“My father doesn’t listen to me, Your Majesty. It might be better to send someone he respects.”

“You will be speaking for me. He’d better respect that!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“He must step up his production, and he must sell the raw ore to the Chiril Armory, and only to Chiril Armory. Tell him to keep an account, and the treasury will pay him after we’ve driven the Baardackians over the Mordack Mountains.”

Bealomondore searched for words to explain that the message would be ill-received and that any messenger would most likely anger his father. Would he even be able to relay the king’s command before he was thrown out?

The king continued, “I’ll have Paladin deliver you to Greeston.” The king fell into a chair, put an elbow on the table, and allowed his head to rest in his hand. “You may go.”

Paladin waited for him outside the tent flap. The young man and Bealomondore walked back to the hospital tent.

“Has the king told you of his order for you to take me to Greeston?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see that it will do much good if I am the one to propose that my father supply materials for arms.”

“You need to know that King Yellat is giving your father one more chance to prove his loyalty to the king. There are rumors that he is making substantial profits selling to whoever offers the bigger purse. It is not the right time to be a businessman first and a Chirilian second.”

“But that sounds like my father.”

They walked on in silence. When the hospital tent came in view, the tumanhofer looked up to the tall emerlindian beside him.

“This war is going badly for us.”

“The war is going badly for them as well.”

“Really?” Bealomondore stroked his chin. “From my position this morning and yesterday and …” He looked around at the battered tents, the men sleeping on the ground in the middle of the day, and the women who washed and fed the army. They all looked ragged and incapable of enduring much more. “And from right here, right now, everything looks dismal and bleak. I see nothing brighter in the future. Another day of fighting. Another day of death. People dying, the land scorched. I hate this.”

Paladin didn’t answer, but Bealomondore’s glance at his face told him how the young ruler felt. Prince Jayrus may have ruled over a peaceful principality of kimens and dragons, but he’d been tutored by a genius. Bealomondore suspected the man could offer advice that would shorten the days of conflict. King Yellat scorned the very man who could help him most.

Once inside the tent, Paladin went immediately to Tipper’s side. Bealomondore checked on his men who were out of commission and then settled in the spot where he had slept.

He watched the quiet interchange between his princess and her prince. How did he know that Paladin had answers for this awful situation? He knew because Paladin relied on Wulder.

Darkness hid the marauders, but Sir Beccaroon had located four by their scent and breathing. Two mariones and two emerlindians.

He’d left Lady Peg and Verrin Schope in the Amber Palace in Ragar. He expected them to venture out of the city, on their way to aid the army, in a day or two. Staying another night indoors did not appeal to him. But he wished he had Verrin Schope with him now. The wizard could enter a man’s mind and discern his objectives.

Beccaroon had no idea why the four men waited in the bushes while two men sat by a campfire. The four men hidden had eaten first, then taken blankets to their hiding spots. Blankets and weapons. And they didn’t sleep. They guarded. The two men in the open talked, and their accents proved them to be Baardackians. The scenario spelled trouble of some sort.

A trill like a bellringer bird signaled a message of some kind. The two men nodded to one another and continued their charade of camaraderie.

“Yo, the camp.” A voice came from the road nearby. “May I enter?”

“Certainly,” said one of the men. He pulled a knife from his belt. “Show your face. Are you friend or foe?”

A well-dressed traveler stepped into the yellow light of the fire. His shambling walk revealed his age, and he led a horse by its reins. An instrument case hung across his back by a fancy strap that made a patterned red sash over the man’s chest. “It isn’t a good time to be camping alone, and I thought I might implore you to allow me to stay.”

“We’re Baardackians, but we’re not part of this war,” said the man who held his knife out of sight behind his thigh. “In fact, we’re dodging their army as well. We don’t want to be conscripted into fighting for our king. My name’s Ephen, and this is my brother, Avid.”

Avid nodded. He still sat and looked relaxed, but Beccaroon didn’t
trust him. Avid removed his cloth hat and scratched fingers through his thick blond hair.

“Yeah,” said Avid, “King Odidoddex wants to rule the world, but he gives you no reason to love him. Taxes, commandeering, conscription, and mockery of justice. He’s got no one to say, ‘Long live the king,’ where we come from.” He reached for a pot. “Do you want some soup?”

“I don’t mind if I do.” The stranger came forward. “I was supposed to reach my destination in time for a banquet, but my horse is lame, and we’ve been walking for over an hour.”

“You’re heading to the capital?”

“No, the other way. I’m a minstrel, and I was to entertain at Sir Inger’s mansion. My name is Thur the Third Bard of Themis.”

Ephen laughed out loud. “Our treat. Some entertainment for providing your meal and safety through the night! Eat up.”

“Boscamon favors us,” said Avid. “It’s just like the trickster to provide the stories we need to feel at home in this land. You’ll sing us a tune or two of history. We don’t know many of your Chiril ballads. Since we may end up living here to avoid our king, we could use some educating.”

“Be glad to.” Thur sat and took the offered bowl and spoon. “There’s some old history in my songs, but the most interesting tune is of the new prince who showed up out of nowhere, the three magic statues, and two wizards—one from Chiril and one from Amara.”

“Amara?” Ephen cast Avid an incredulous look. “You don’t say? Isn’t that clear on the other side of the world?”

“It’s an interesting tale. Let this good soup warm my stomach, and I’ll sing you the news of today as well as yesterday.”

Beccaroon narrowed his eyes. Four men still in the bushes. Three men comfortable around the fire. The minstrel too willing to share information with men who were, more than probably, the enemy. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Sir Beccaroon weighed his options. He’d already been perched when these ne’er-do-wells settled in. Any movement he made might attract the attention of the four thugs in the bushes.

They had bows and arrows at the ready, and he didn’t feel like imitating a pincushion. He could probably fly at a sharp incline away from the camp and be out of range before they spotted him. If he flew to his right, his escape would be covered by tall trees. That would be favorable for him but not much help to the minstrel who’d walked into the trap.

What exactly did they figure to gain by ambushing the traveler? The road, as one of the major links to Ragar and Growder, carried significant traffic. Perhaps they expected to detain an important official or sneak into the capital by joining a group of innocent citizens.

The sound of a drummerbug came from below, then echoed from the other side of the clearing. It blended in nicely with other night calls from insects and birds, but Beccaroon knew it was man-made. He watched the men in the bushes. Three of them settled down as if to sleep. Around the campfire, the men ate.

Irked that he couldn’t figure out their plan, the parrot decided to wait. He wouldn’t leave before he determined their intent, and he wouldn’t leave while he might have the chance to snatch this foolish old minstrel from some underhanded scheme.

He continued to puzzle over the situation. Could these men have hoped to waylay someone of more importance? Would the traveling musician inform these scoundrels about something of consequence with his songs?

After the meal and several drinks from a small keg, the minstrel took out his lute and strummed a few chords. The man had talent. The men pressed for the ballads relaying recent events, and the minstrel obliged. Sir Beccaroon would have preferred the older ballads, but whenever Thur moved to play an older tune, the men objected.

“It’s not going to help us be a part of your citizenry if all we know is of long-ago battles and wooing between royal-type people,” said Ephen. “Give us more of what the folks are talking about now.”