Dragons of the Valley

  “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.

  39

  Secret Revealed

  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.”

  “Aye,” said Avid. “Tell me something I can brag about knowing and impress a lady or two with my great knowledge of the world.”

  They all laughed, and Thur began plucking a tune Sir Beccaroon did not know. The minstrel dived into the lyrics with enthusiasm, telling of three statues carved from one stone. The sculptor intended the figures to be placed in a circle. Great magic stirred from the center of the silent dance, and the world could come apart at their parting.

  The second and third verses told that villains knew of the
trick of turning each figure to dance in the opposite direction. This opened a door to evil lands. Then good men from afar came to rescue Chiril by foiling the two treacherous leaders of conquering armies. Now the stones were safe in the king’s castle.

  In the next song, the old minstrel sang of a man who reached into the mind of the immortal and told tales of gaining favor with the “Forever Ruler.” This mortal man had been a prince with no kingdom, a dragonkeeper of a valley of dragons, and became the paladin, champion of the people and giver of truth.

  When he finished, Avid asked, “This is like Boscamon, right? A god that controls things?”

  “I don’t think so, but I know only what I’ve been told. It seems Wulder is the god and the paladin is His worker of some sort.”

  “Then Paladin is real. You’ve seen him?”

  “No, not me,” answered the singer. “But I hear he was in the castle, and he travels with a foreign wizard and Verrin Schope, who carved the three statues.”

  “I’m more interested in those statues.” Ephen struck a limb he was using as a poker against a burning log. A shower of sparks went up in the air. “Did that really happen? That army came pouring out of a hole in nothing and straight into the king’s ballroom, right? That must have been something.”

  “Only those who were there that night know for sure,” answered Thur. “There are lots of stories about many people being hurt in a brawl right in the ballroom of the Amber Palace. But if the evil men were there, they and their army disappeared as quick as they showed up.”

  “So these statues are in the Amber Palace?” asked Avid.

  “No, they disappeared.”

  Avid slapped his hands on his knees. “Well then, that’s simple. The evil men took the statues.”

  “No, first the wicked wizard and his henchmen disappeared, then later the statues were taken.”

  “So they came back for the statues.” Avid’s face, aglow from the firelight, looked stubborn.

  Beccaroon thought the man too sure of himself when he had so few facts. The minstrel shook his head, but before he could say no to that idea, Avid jumped to his feet.

  Ephen sprang up to stand between the minstrel and his brother. “Now you’re making my brother angry. He likes to have things all figured out. Who’s who. What’s what. And where’s a thing supposed to be. It bothers him some not to have a thing in its proper place.” The sturdy man turned to his brother. “We’ll not talk of this anymore tonight, Avid. You just think of this as a fairy tale, no truer than donkeys building houses or people being born inside a rosebud and never growing bigger than your big toe.”

  Avid remained tense, glaring at the man on the other side of his brother. Finally he relaxed, lazily picked up a couple of sticks, and laid them on the fire. Then he strolled off into the woods.

  “Where’s he going?” asked Thur in a voice so quiet Beccaroon had to strain to hear it.

  “Nowhere in particular. Probably one last trip to answer the call of nature before we bed down. Don’t worry about him. He gets riled quick, but then it’s over.”

  Avid didn’t return for some time. Thur unfolded a blanket given to him by the calmer brother, used his wadded-up coat for a pillow, and went to sleep. Ephen turned in next, and after a long while, Avid came back to lie on the third side of a triangle with the fire in the middle.

  The night guard crouched behind a bush and watched. A drummerbug beat a rhythm in the dark. At the signal, the guard tiptoed to the nearest man. He touched the sleeping figure and repeated the drummerbug sound.

  Soft words were exchanged, but Beccaroon could not hear. The first man settled down to sleep, and the second took over the watch. Beccaroon nodded. Nothing more was likely to happen that night. He allowed the calm sounds of real insects to lull him to sleep.

  An oath, loud and foul but not of his language, rudely awoke him the next morning. He shook his feathers and peered through an early fog still clinging to the ground and bushes. Six men stood where the fire had warmed three the night before. One man, the minstrel, still lay in his blanket.

  “Who did this?” barked Ephen. He glared at Avid. His gaze swept over the four other men. “Who slept through their watch and let this happen?”

  No one answered.

  “Let me see your knife, Avid.”

  The brother took his weapon from its sheath and handed it over. Ephen examined it briefly and handed it back.

  “Why, brother? You didn’t have to slice his throat. We could have just let him go on his way this morning.”

  The four men shuffled back a few steps.

  Bile rose in Beccaroon’s throat, but it was quickly doused with a healthy dose of anger. Why murder the man in his sleep? He waited to hear what Avid would say. When he didn’t answer, the four men stepped back again.

  “Oh, forget it,” said Ephen. “What’s done is done.” He turned to address the men on the verge of flight. “Bury him, and do a good job of it. We don’t want him found.”

  They jumped to obey. Avid still stood next to the body.

  Ephen wiped his hand down his face as if to remove some horrid stain. “I’m going to find Groddenmitersay and give him the information we learned last night.”

  “Take him with you,” said one of the men.

  Ephen looked his brother over. “Yeah, you come with me, Avid.”

  After Ephen and Avid rode off and while the other four men took turns digging, Beccaroon flew off on an errand of his own. He intercepted the carriage bringing Verrin Schope and Lady Peg from Ragar. The coachman pulled up as soon as he saw the parrot beside the road.

  The couple sat facing each other in the opulent coach. Verrin Schope stuck his head out one window, and Lady Peg peered through the other.

  “You’ve news,” said the wizard. He opened the door and stepped down to the road.

  Sir Beccaroon nodded to Lady Peg. “Pardon me, Lady Peg, but I would like for your husband to sit on the roof with me for a while. We have some business to discuss.”

  “Oh, please, Verrin Schope,” said the lady, “do go up instead of trying to talk with Bec here. I would try to understand, and that is something I really don’t want to do. Instead, I’ll sit here and compose a poem about our travels.”

  Sir Beccaroon tilted his head and peered up at the carriage where Tipper’s mother could be seen through the window. “I’ve known you for many years, Lady Peg. How is it that I am unaware that you write poetry?”

  “I don’t write poetry, Bec.”

  “This is your first poem then?”

  The look on her face told him he should have never responded to her first statement. A glance at her husband revealed the gentleman distracted by a fascinating tree growing next to the road. Fortunately, the good sculptor decided to take pity on his old friend.

  Verrin Schope took his wife’s hand through the window and placed a courtly kiss on the soft knuckles.

  “Compose away, sweet, sweet lily of my heart.”

  Beccaroon flew to the top of the carriage, where Verrin Schope soon joined him. The driver gave the command to “Get on.”

  As soon as the horses had gathered enough speed to produce a clattering that covered their lack of conversation, Verrin Schope mindspoke to his old friend.

  “You’re upset about something.”

  I missed seeing a murder this morning. I slept. If I’d been more vigilant, I could have saved his life.

  “Tell me.”

  Sir Beccaroon began with the first noises that came from below his perch, heralding the crew who would camp beneath him. The whole story took no more than ten minutes but changed the plan they were in the middle of executing.

  “Going to Growder is no longer an option,” said Verrin Schope.

  “I agree.”

  “I’ll send someone else to encourage the men to enlist. Have you noticed how much better the people have been these last weeks? Fenworth has the statues together, and the mental unrest among the people has all but ceased. The good citizens of Chi
ril are rising to the challenge of defending their homes.”

  Beccaroon tsked, shaking his beak. “King Yellat is still acting like he must punish someone for their original reluctance to rally ’round the cause.”

  “He took it as a personal rejection of his authority. I doubt that even a victory would erase the sting of their noncompliance with his orders.” Verrin Schope stared at his hands folded together. White knuckles indicated his opinion of his father-in-law’s pride.

  Beccaroon prodded the conversation back to the problem. “But we can’t do anything about that now.”

  “Correct.” The wizard relaxed his grip and stretched his fingers. “We must endeavor to stop these people from informing their superiors of the statues and their value.”

  “At least they don’t know where they are.”

  Verrin Schope remained silent. Beccaroon watched his clever friend’s face. He knew exactly when a scheme was coming together in his mind by the pleasant smile that transformed his expression.

  The wizard artist winked. “We shall need the talents of Lady Peg to pull this off.”

  “Poetry?” asked Beccaroon.

  A loud bark of laughter escaped her husband. “No, we shall need her peculiar brand of logic.”

  “I pity the enemy,” said Bec.

  “As you should.”

  “Do we know where the statues are?”

  “I do.”

  “With Fenworth?”

  “Of course.”

  Sir Beccaroon squinted one eye at Verrin Schope. “And you know where Wizard Fenworth is?”

  The sculptor looked offended, then winked. “Of course.”

  40

  Confusion

  Sir Beccaroon followed Verrin Schope and his wife as they strolled into the inn. “I’m not sure I understand what I am to do,” complained Lady Peg. “Except what I am doing is for Wulder, my father, and the country.”

  The wizard patted his wife’s hand as it rested on his sleeve. “Don’t worry, Peg. What you do naturally is enough to confound the wisest of strategists.”