Dragons of the Valley

  “Please.” The mangled word sounded nothing like a plea for mercy.

  They kept at it, laughing a little with suppressed pleasure.

  “We got ‘er,” said the one pushing.

  “Gotcha,” came the muffled reply.

  The dirt surrounded Tipper’s neck and chin. She tried to pull in a deep breath before her head went under. She inhaled a leaf, choked, and only barely heard the next comment from her captors.

  “Knew we could.”

  “Gotcha, gotcha.”

  3

  Invasion

  Sir Beccaroon sensed the turmoil in the Amber Palace as soon as he landed on the roof. He shook his feathers, cocked his head, and tried to discern exactly where the commotion centered. Not the servants’ quarters. Not the armory or the bailiwicks. Ah! The main hall near the gallery.

  He strutted across the tiled roof to the circular stairs wrapping around the east tower. Perhaps the alarm had already been raised. That would be convenient. He really didn’t want to be the one who broke the news.

  Inside, he followed several servants scurrying toward the central part of the castle. On the walls and in alcoves, paintings and statues displayed timeless beauty and serenity. He recognized voices raised in discord as he rounded the corner. At the sunlit entrance to the gallery itself, the king, queen, Lady Peg, and Librettowit raged on about some difficulty.

  Beccaroon paused to listen. The object of their concern was not soldiers stealthily advancing toward the castle. They argued about missing statues.

  Not just any statues, but Verrin Schope’s Trio of Elements. The problem of an impending attack was weighty enough on its own. The missing artwork complicated matters tremendously. Had Tipper’s father shattered when the statues left their dais? Were cows and farmhouses falling into gaping crevices caused by the world’s surface stretching?

  The three statues had been carved from one stone. Verrin Schope had not known at the time that Wulder had used the marvelous piece of marble as a cornerstone for the world He created. As long as the statues were set up as originally designed, nothing went awry. But when separated, physical changes erupted in the countryside. And Verrin Schope also suffered. He literally came apart, his being dissipating and scattering, not horribly uncomfortable but very disorienting. And each fracturing and reassembly took its toll on the artist’s health. His parrot friend easily envisioned disaster if the enemy gained any of the powers associated with the stones.

  “Awk!” Sir Beccaroon ruffled his feathers and moved more briskly down the hall, muttering. “Friendly foreigners bring odd ideas and unsteady shifts in what should be reliable nature. And now definitely unfriendly foreigners infiltrate our countryside bringing weapons and monsters of war.”

  Lady Peg glanced his way, and a look of relief smoothed her anxious wrinkles. “Here’s Beccaroon. He’ll know what this is all about and how to proceed.”

  King Yellat turned to him. “My granddaughter is gone, along with that tumanhofer artist. Apparently they’ve taken two of Verrin Schope’s statues.”

  “Perhaps,” said Beccaroon in his most diplomatic voice, “they discovered the statues stolen and are in pursuit of the thieves.”

  “See?” said Lady Peg. “I told you he’d have a sensible answer. The tumanhofer is after the scoundrels.” Her face collapsed again into puzzlement. “I don’t know why Tipper had to go along. I hope it’s not a romantic entanglement. My daughter is not at all in the know when it comes to men.”

  The king lowered his chin and pinned Beccaroon with a fierce scowl. “In my experience, artists are not practical, not heroic, and more likely to keep their brushes in good order than the blades of their swords sharpened.”

  Lady Peg folded her hands in front of her. “Verrin Schope is an artist, and he is a noble man. He risked his life to save this country. My husband is practical and heroic, and he doesn’t have any swords. But I do think he keeps his sculpting tools sharp.”

  “Your daughter”—Queen Venmarie’s accusatory tone rankled Beccaroon’s nerves—“has followed in the footsteps of her mother, engaging in a relationship with a ne’er-do-well.”

  Lady Peg’s face went blank, a trait that often indicated her confused state. “That’s unfair, Mother. Tipper isn’t here, so she can’t possibly be following me.” Lady Peg glanced behind her to be sure. “And of course, my husband is not a ne’er-do-well. Everything he does, he does well. Thousands of people say so. Even the king, my father, has noted that he is an exceptional artisan. Although Verrin Schope says he’s a jack-of-all-sorts, I’ve never seen him make candles or shoe a horse. I don’t believe he grows wheat or fixes plumbing. I suppose it is bad of him to say he is a jack-of-all-that. Still, he is very accomplished at things that are not practical.”

  She ran out of breath and looked close to crying. Beccaroon went to her side. She rested her hand on the back of his neck, softly stroking his feathers. Her expression clearly suggested a deep turmoil developing.

  “Bec,” she whispered, “what is that jack-of-something?”

  “Jack-of-all-trades.”

  Her countenance brightened. “Exactly. That is exactly what Verrin Schope is not.” Her face lost its shine. “Bec, do you know where Tipper is?”

  “No, milady, I don’t.”

  Lady Peg straightened. “I’m going to find her.”

  She turned swiftly and strode off, her head held high. Tipper labeled her mother’s dramatic exits “the regal departure.”

  Beccaroon shook his head. Where had that girl gone? The others in the room seemed to be more interested in the loss of the two statues. Beccaroon didn’t blame them for that. But he was in the habit of looking after Tipper, and her disappearance brought her safety to the front of his mind. He could think of many traps the young woman could fall into.

  Librettowit stood, scowling at the remaining statue. Beccaroon half listened to the king and queen squabbling. Had Tipper run off? He’d thought she was in danger of losing her heart to Paladin. Was it the tumanhofer who’d caught her eye?

  “Awk!”

  Librettowit looked at him and arched an eyebrow. Beccaroon strutted across the space between them, hating the way the rug captured his talons.

  “Do you have any theories?” the grand parrot asked the librarian.

  “Only another question. Why take two of the statues and not the third?”

  Beccaroon detected the rumble of voices coming into this wing of the palace. “Paladin and Verrin Schope are coming. Fenworth too. Perhaps they will have answers.”

  Librettowit frowned as he peered down the hall. “Mumbling. I can’t make out what they’re talking about.”

  “Awk!” exclaimed Beccaroon. “They know of the foreign soldiers in the woods to the west of Ragar.”

  Librettowit’s scowl deepened. “Some of the crew put together by the evil wizard Runan? I thought Paladin sent them all home.”

  “No, these men wear no uniform.”

  “Then why do you say soldiers?”

  Beccaroon gestured with his wingtip. “The way they advance through the terrain indicates special training. They move with stealth and assurance. I’d say they are a strike force, meant to sabotage our peace in some manner or weaken our defenses before a full army appears.”

  “How do you know all this? Have you studied warcraft?”

  “Yes, at university. And you?”

  The librarian glanced toward the hall where his wizard friend walked with Verrin Schope and Paladin. Distracted, Librettowit mumbled, “Fenworth’s library contains many books on military history, statistics, and strategy.”

  The trio of men entered the main hall.

  Verrin Schope broke off his conversation with Paladin and spoke to those already assembled around the defiled art display. “We have unpleasant news.” He stopped beside the king. “King Yellat, Chiril has a new enemy, one pouring into the country by way of the coastline northeast of here and the mountains.”

  “This is a threat from outside our borde
rs?” The king swept a scorching gaze over the company around him. “Who dares assault us? We’ve been at peace for centuries, and now our safety is challenged twice in such a short time? Who? Who is behind this new threat?”

  Paladin put up his hand to stop the angry flow of words. “Our information is sketchy, but three kimens have delivered an account of boats landing under cover of night along the rough shore below the port of Terenia and unusual activity in the Mordack Mountains. Kimen spies heard the men speak of weakening our defenses by striking barracks and weapon strongholds. King Odidoddex was mentioned.”

  King Yellat glared at Paladin. “I thank you for the report on rumors that have already reached me.” He turned to stare at the two empty places where Verrin Schope’s statues should have been standing. “Does the theft of these powerful statues have something to do with the invasion?”

  Verrin Schope went to stand beside his father-in-law. “They were not stolen, your majesty. I instructed the kimens to escort all three statues out of the city and out of the reach of our enemy. It would not do to have such an effective instrument of transportation fall into the wrong hands.”

  “One of the statues remains.”

  Wizard Fenworth cleared his throat. “I can explain that.” He patted his robes until he found the pocket he wanted. He reached in, his arm disappearing up to his elbow, and pulled out a dark shape. “I beg your pardon,” he said to the disheveled figure as it stretched and grew lighter.

  Fenworth turned to the others. “This fine young woman came to me last night, woke me from a sound sleep, and told me of some urgent business. I’m afraid I stuffed her in a hollow and went back to sleep. I do recall her saying something about the statue, prudent flight, and averting disaster.”

  The pouting kimen brushed her hands over her clothing as it shone with a red hue. “I told him to hurry, and he says to me, ‘Morning is soon enough.’ Next thing I know, I’m trapped in a dark place where things keep bumping into me.”

  Fenworth tilted his head. “What things?”

  “How am I to know? I told you it was dark, and in that despicable place my lights wouldn’t work.”

  “It’s just that I am missing some belongings. Mislaid, you know. Like you were. I fear I’d completely forgotten about your visit. Or thought it was a dream. Whatever. I’m glad to see you again, and to make up for the delay in following through with your bidding, I will take you on a whirl. Some people get a little motion sickness, but I’m quite sure you are of a stronger constitution.”

  Fenworth crossed the room to snatch the remaining statue and then hurried to put his arm around Librettowit’s shoulders.

  “Oh no!” said the librarian. “I’ve no wish to go swirling with you.”

  “Whirling,” corrected the wizard. “A slight technical difference.”

  “No,” said Librettowit.

  A rush of wind swept through, the noise of which assailed the occupants of the room without the evidence of anything being blown. One moment, Beccaroon saw the two men, a frantic female kimen, and the statue. The next, they were gone.

  4

  Where Are We?

  Bealomondore groaned and opened his eyes slowly. Flowers canopied over him. He sat up, only to be repulsed by thorny branches that held grapelike clusters of purple blooms. He leaned back and tried to make sense of his situation.

  He remembered the kimens in the tavern, and he vaguely remembered the name of this bush. Was it wild cascade? He shook his head and regretted the sharp movement. He swallowed an unpleasant taste in his mouth and tried to think. Details of what had happened between his head falling to the rough-hewn boards of a back-room table and this floral awakening eluded him.

  “Sorry about the headache.”

  He turned toward the soft voice. “Maxon? What am I doing here?”

  The kimen lay on his stomach, peering under the foliage. His pointed chin rested on his folded hands. His eyebrow-less expression made him look as surprised to find Bealomondore under a flowering cascade bush as the tumanhofer himself was.

  “You drugged me.”

  A smile flitted across the kimen’s face. “Technically Winkel drugged you.”

  “Why?”

  “To get you here without your seeing how to get here.”

  Bealomondore’s head pounded. “Wouldn’t a blindfold have worked? A sack over my head? You could have just said, ‘Don’t look.’ ”

  “The first two are worthy suggestions. I’ll mention them to our leaders. The last is something that might not prove reliable for all our guests.”

  Closing his eyes, Bealomondore tried to relax against the pain, diffusing it. “You have lots of company, do you?”

  “Not so much.”

  The tumanhofer put his palm against his forehead and tried to press away his suffering. Surely his brains had turned to coarse rocks and some imp had stirred them with a heavy lead pole. He heard vague rustling noises and turned his attention to his surroundings.

  “Here,” said the kimen. “I’ve got something for your pain.”

  Bealomondore squinted as he turned his head. Maxon held out a white egg-shaped object the size of the tumanhofer’s thumb. It completely covered the kimen’s palm.

  “What is it?”

  “A seedpod. Just pop it in your mouth and chew. You’ll feel much better.”

  “It’s not an egg?”

  “No, it’s a seedpod.”

  “It looks like an insect egg.”

  “It’s a seedpod.”

  The tumanhofer wrinkled his nose. “What kind of seedpod?”

  Maxon thrust the object closer to Bealomondore’s face. “A medicinal seedpod. Do you want it or not?”

  Bealomondore took it, slipped it between his lips, and crunched. The shell broke, and a sweet juice flowed over his tongue. The taste alone pacified his warring nerves.

  “Umm, good,” he said, then frowned at Maxon. “What kind of seedpod has a liquid center?”

  “This kind.”

  “Is it raw?”

  “Raw works best.”

  Bealomondore chewed and swallowed. He immediately felt the effect of the medicinal seedpod.

  “Want another?” asked Maxon.

  “Yes.”

  Maxon offered another egglike pod, this one a pale green. Bealomondore took it without question. This seed husk had a crunchy center with a tangy taste, leaving him fully alert.

  Without the nagging headache and with his mind clear, Bealomondore conjured up a list of questions. He felt around his clothing, hoping to locate the hollow bag containing the statue. His movements brought him in contact with the thorny bush, and flower petals showered from above. He stuck out his lower lip and blew upward, dislodging a purple bud from his nose.

  “Where is the hollow with the statue in it?” he asked Maxon.

  “Inside your coat, in the breast pocket.”

  He sighed with relief when his fingers found the soft material of the collapsed bag. But every move he made was accompanied by pokes and scrapes from the surrounding bush.

  “I want out of here,” he said.

  “Easily done.” Maxon scooted backward. “I’ll just get some helpers.”

  Bealomondore scowled at the situation. “If I can’t move to get out, how did you move me to get in?”

  Maxon’s muffled voice drifted through the branches of Bealomondore’s resplendent bower. “Don’t panic now. Just stay still and let Roof and Door do all the work.”

  The ground bubbled below Bealomondore, the dirt churned, something beneath the surface reached through, and he felt himself carried out of the hedge by nubby, malletlike objects. Feet first, he rolled out from under the thorny cascade bush. As soon as he cleared the last branches, he jumped to his feet.

  He whirled around and stared at the ground. The dirt looked like freshly tilled soil on a farm. Hairy fingers wiggled out of the loam. With disgust, Bealomondore realized these had propelled him out of the bower. Dirty palms pushed upward, then thick wrists, long ar
ms, and shoulders. Between the shoulders, a round head perched and wobbled.

  With hands pressing the surface at its sides, the shaggy creature hoisted the lower half of its body clear of the earth. The ground behind the first creature stirred, and another beast emerged.

  “Step back,” warned Maxon.

  Bealomondore almost missed that the order was directed at him, but Maxon’s powerful tug on his trouser leg emphasized the need to move.

  Like wet dogs, both earth creatures squeezed their eyes shut and gave a tremendous shake of their bodies. Clods of dirt sprayed in every direction. Bealomondore and Maxon backed farther away.

  The tumanhofer gasped. “They’re ropmas.”

  “Yes.” Maxon eyed the figures before them. “Are you done shaking?”

  A low, rumbling chortle came from the two as they stretched and shook once more. Smaller bits of dirt, vegetation, even gritty pebbles flew from their woolly coats.

  Bealomondore had never seen a ropma up close. One of the low races, they lived in forests, mountains, and other isolated areas. His fingers itched to pick up a pencil and sketch pad. He wanted a picture to capture the distinctiveness of the two.

  Shaggy fur covered their muscular bodies. Dirt obscured the light color of their coats. They wore no clothing but looked natural and decent, like some huge house pet. In fact, Bealomondore decided the ropmas looked like friendly longhair cats. Big cats, standing on their hind legs.

  Maxon pointed to each ropma. “This is Roof and his brother, Door.”

  The brothers exchanged looks. Then, once again, deep-throated chuckles tumbled out of their smiling mouths.

  “All right then.” Maxon grimaced and reversed the order as he pointed to each one. “That one is Roof, and the other is Door.”

  The ropmas continued their gravelly laugh and bobbed their heads.

  “Thank you,” said Bealomondore, “for getting me out of that hole.”

  The brothers dropped their smiles and looked at each other with concern.

  “Hole?”

  “Hole?”

  They turned to Maxon for an explanation.