Dragons of the Valley

  The memory of hands grasping her ankles, harsh voices, and smothering dirt threatened her peace. The song grew louder, and unease melted into safe sleep.

  “I’m staying here.” Bealomondore’s voice pierced the fabric of a pleasant dream.

  A meadow full of colorful minor dragons slipped from Tipper’s mind. An invasive question screamed, “Where am I?”

  She opened her eyes and swiveled her head, taking in her surroundings. Kimens, two tumanhofers, and the o’rant wizard crowded the tent. Sunlight diffused through the fine blue material. The walls and ceiling of this abode tinged everything in sight with a glowing azure light.

  The one tall figure paced beside her couch. He hadn’t noticed her, which was typical. She wanted some answers. “Wizard Fenworth!”

  He turned toward her, his eyes sparkling. “So you’re awake. Good, good. Need you to talk some sense into this stubborn tumanhofer. I mean to tell you, girl, tumanhofers have more than their share of contrariness. And he’s an artist. You know what that means.”

  Tipper didn’t know what being an artist had to do with anything. Her expression must have said as much to the wizard.

  “Unpredictable!” He shifted his glare to focus on Bealomondore. “You would think a man who’s undertaken the removal of a valued item from harm’s way would be willing—no, not willing, anxious—to transport that valuable item to a place where it can do some good.” He lifted one eyebrow and scrutinized Tipper. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Memories swelled like a riptide over her peace. She sat up. “The statues.” She swung her legs off the couch.

  “Exactly, my dear.” Librettowit came to sit next to her.

  Some measure of relief came with the wizard’s librarian she had learned to trust. Often he was sensible when the others were merely loud.

  “I thought we were safe here,” she said.

  He nodded. “Somewhat. We must sort out the myths and the truth before we decide what is to be done with the statues.”

  Librettowit pinched at his mustache with thumb and forefinger. “In Amara, tradition has it that kimens cannot be tracked.” He looked around the room at the kimens assembled. “Is that true?”

  The kimens nodded.

  Maxon stepped forward. “Yes, it is, but we’ve had disturbing reports of an unusual warrior in an enemy camp.”

  A chair appeared next to the wizard, and he sat, taking off his hat and rubbing his hair. His hand dislodged several small creatures that ran down his robes and out the tent flap.

  “We’ve met our fair share of unusual warriors,” said the wizard and clapped his pointed hat back on his head.

  Librettowit ignored him. “The description of this man is more like a beast than one of the seven low races, but he speaks and wears clothes.”

  Maxon cleared his throat. “He also growls and eats his food like a lion devours its prey, tearing the raw meat from the bone. He wears pants and a shirt, all right, but he also wears battle gear and carries a spear that he throws far distances with great accuracy.”

  Librettowit nodded. “These are facts, not myth.”

  Taeda Bel came close to Tipper and put her hands on the emerlindian’s leg. The kimen’s eyes rounded with fear. “He looked straight at me. He shouldn’t have known we were there. Maxon, Hollee, and I scouted the camp. I think he saw us all.” She shuddered. “They call him The Grawl. He’s not like other creatures, high race or low. He doesn’t belong in the animal kingdom either. He should not exist.”

  Tipper placed her hand on her small friend’s back. She could think of nothing to calm Taeda Bel’s dread. Instead, she swallowed and looked at the serious faces surrounding her. At times she had seen a group of kimens together on market day, but in this small tent, around thirty of the dainty people watched her.

  “So who do you report to about the things you find out? My grandfather? His commander of arms?” The kimens looked at each other, and when no one spoke, Tipper asked again. “Who?”

  “It is our nature to keep an eye on things, especially in the Starling Forest. If we are to tell someone, we find out later.”

  Tipper turned to Librettowit for an explanation.

  The old tumanhofer shrugged. “In Amara, the kimens are very conscientious in their regard of Wulder. Here, they seem to take on the same duties without the close bond with their creator.” He shook his head in puzzlement. “I must study them and probe their history to find out what their function is in His design for Chiril.”

  Taeda Bel’s happy smile returned to her face. “Hollee knows a lot. Her family is the keeper of tales for the village.”

  “Who is Hollee?” Tipper asked.

  The female kimen standing closest to the wizard stepped forward. “I am. I’ve been assigned to Wizard Fenworth.”

  Even in the solemnity of the meeting, a few snickers escaped. Tipper caught two kimens exchanging a look that included rolling eyes. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Being assigned to the rascally wizard would be an arduous task for any of the fun-loving kimens.

  Bealomondore shifted in his chair. Tipper’s eyes widened as she took in the splendor of his garments. The cut of the clothing duplicated what he normally wore, but the clarity of color and the quality of material outshone anything bought in a shop. The kimens had apparently dressed him.

  She looked down at her own gown. She could not stop her fingers from stroking the shining peach folds flowing over her knees. She’d never been particular about her attire, but she longed for a full-length mirror to see if she looked as beautiful as she felt. If the kimens had mirrors that were full length for them, she’d only be able to see the bottom of her skirt.

  “We have business to do,” said Fenworth. He began rummaging through his hollows. He pulled out a statue, Evening Yearns. A female figure danced over grass.

  Hollee clapped her hands. “That’s a kimen.”

  Maxon, Taeda Bel, and Hollee made a circle around the statue and trilled their excitement as they examined the craftsmanship.

  “It’s marvelous!” Hollee said as she grabbed the other two kimens in a hug.

  “Oh dear, oh dear. I do hope you young people have not mislaid your statues. We must put them together so that Verrin Schope will not get discombobulated. And there is the added problem of how the lack of approximatation and balance of line causes disruption to nature in general.”

  “What’s approximatation?” asked Hollee.

  Librettowit scowled. “Something he made up, most likely. But he means they need to be close together and properly arranged or trees fall over and the ground sinks into deep holes and other disastrous anomalies occur.”

  Tipper and Bealomondore produced Day’s Deed and Morning Glory.

  “No room in here,” said Fenworth. “We shall place them in the kimens’ glen.”

  “Outside?” asked Bealomondore.

  Tipper smiled. “My father’s statues were hidden in Beccaroon’s forest for years. They don’t fall apart under the stress of a little weather.”

  The tumanhofer did not look pleased but followed the others out of his dwelling.

  The activity of setting up the statues in their precise formation attracted the attention of many villagers. Songs and dance and storytelling invested the impromptu celebration with a merry, festive tone.

  Fenworth found a place to sit and cheered the kimens on in their revelry. He even joined in a dance but soon had to rest. He pulled a container of daggarts out of a hollow and shared them. Tipper wondered how long they had been in storage.

  With all the commotion, she had almost forgotten the importance of the Trio of Elements. Without her father’s art positioned as a unit, the world and her father crumbled. Her father dissipated and reformed. But the ground, cracked and altered, never came back to its original state. Living things like trees lost their form, and the restructuring contained gross abnormalities.

  Bealomondore interrupted her wandering thoughts. “If we are safe here, why move? The company is pleasant, and they s
eem at ease with our visit.”

  Wizard Fenworth cast the young artist a speculative glance. “You are pleased with the paints and brushes our hosts have provided.”

  “Of course I am, and they are agreeable to letting me do portraits. It’s the opportunity an artist lives for.” He gestured to the dancing villagers. “This scene needs to be captured on canvas.”

  Librettowit wrinkled his brow. “Your art will mean little in a country devastated by war.”

  “I don’t believe the enemy can find us. The statues are safe here. We put them in peril by leaving this sanctuary.”

  Fenworth stood, dropping leaves and bugs. “I know exactly the course we should take at this time.”

  All eyes turned to the oldest and presumably wisest among them. He patted his lean stomach.

  “Eat. Solid food. Nourishment. Where’s the kitchen in this establishment?”

  The Grawl crouched in the underbrush, sitting on his heels. He could remain in this position for hours. The small creatures called kimens had been a challenge to track, but he knew of no animal that could throw him off its trail. The three kimens never even suspected that he followed. And now he’d discovered their village, each structure obscured from the naked eye but clearly perceptible to his keen senses. Detecting each of their dwellings pleased him immensely. Listening to their debate raised a smile on his ugly face.

  He watched the merriment with disdain. The villagers celebrated the statues with much fervor. Obviously their worth included something more than just artistry. He didn’t know exactly what, but it would be something he’d investigate.

  He frowned. He did not know if he could stomach reporting his find to First Speatus Kulson. The bisonbecks he traveled with were the best of Odidoddex’s army—yet still inferior. They needed too much food, water, and sleep. To follow the orders of the fool who led the other fools made The Grawl’s leathered skin crawl.

  This venture had been of his own doing. The small creatures spying on the camp had intrigued him, and he’d tracked them for the fun of it. Why should he reveal his findings? Perhaps the information would be worth an extra payment if he waited until the right moment.

  A mouse scurried through the tall grass. It paused, stood on its hind legs, nose quivering. Did it sense him sitting so still? With uncanny swiftness, The Grawl snatched the small animal. He tossed the mouse, whole and living, into his mouth and crunched down on fur and bones. Warm blood squirted over his tongue. He chewed a moment and swallowed.

  Rising without a sound from his hiding place, The Grawl headed back to the camp. He’d get there soon enough, but it would be a while before he spoke of wizards, artists, and valuable statues.

  7

  Hollee’s Joy

  Hollee did a somersault in the air as she followed Wizard Fenworth. Finally they were going to do something. The week since the arrival of the four outsiders had been interesting but not exciting. One tumanhofer drew, the other wrote, the wizard slept, and the beautiful emerlindian investigated every aspect of the village. Hollee enjoyed going with Taeda Bel as she explained how things were done in the kimen village, but now that her wizard was awake and muttering, things would happen. She just knew it.

  The other kimens joked about Hollee’s attachment to the scatterbrained old man, but she thought the possibilities for fun and adventure abounded within his quirks and foibles. Taeda Bel enjoyed the emerlindian Tipper. Their personalities matched. Maxon would probably be stuck in the village, watching the painter paint. How boring. Fenworth would surprise her, and Hollee couldn’t wait to see what he did next.

  They crossed the village clearing and entered the woods, coming to the door of Bealomondore’s specially designed quarters.

  “Confound it!” said the wizard. “How do you knock on this thing? I don’t suppose there is anything as practical as a doorbell.”

  Hollee stepped forward to help, but before she could rattle the branches, the door swung open to reveal the tumanhofer artist with a smock over his elaborate clothing and a paintbrush in his hand.

  “I heard you,” he said. “Come in, come in. I’ll show you my latest drawings, all mere sketches but magnificent, and the painting I started this morning.”

  “Hurray! I want to see,” said Hollee. She entered the bower abode, dancing forward on her toes.

  “You work rapidly,” Fenworth observed as he walked into the well-lit room Bealomondore had fitted out as his studio.

  Hollee skipped around the room, examining the pictures and recognizing her friends. The wizard followed at a more sedate pace. With his hands clasped behind his back, he mumbled as he moved from sketch to sketch. Bealomondore kept in step with him, leaning close as if to catch a word or two from the wizard’s incoherent muttering.

  “You are wringing my nerves, sir.” He hurried to block the man’s progress to the next picture. “Are those positive or negative comments, Wizard Fenworth?”

  The wizard turned abruptly and frowned down at the tumanhofer. “Eh? What? Tut, tut, man. Don’t be in such a twitter.”

  “Do you like them, sir?”

  “Like kimens? Of course I do. What’s not to like about a quick, cheery, clever kimen?”

  A grin spread over Hollee’s face. She loved the wizard’s way of saying things.

  Bealomondore sucked in a long breath and let it out slowly. “The drawings of the kimens. Do you like them?”

  Hollee sat down, directing her full attention to the conversation. A squirmy intuition in her belly told her this would be entertaining.

  The wizard’s frown deepened. “What do you care if I like them or not? Do you like them?”

  “Well, y-yes.”

  “Good.” He clapped a hand on Bealomondore’s shoulder. “Shows you have good taste. These are excellent. Finest I’ve seen. You’ve been working hard. Time to take a break. Look at other things.”

  “I’m not tired at all. This project energizes me. And I haven’t even started on the ropmas.”

  “Mustn’t do it all at once. I have a job for you.”

  Hollee’s head bobbed in anticipation. She knew the wizard’s scheme, and she knew the tumanhofer would object. Which stubborn man would come out on top?

  “A job?” Bealomondore backed up.

  “Yes, you and I will go have a look at this enemy.”

  Hollee sat up straighter. This wasn’t exactly what she expected. The wizard had been muttering all morning about a trip to Ragar to get more information from King Yellat and Paladin. He also planned to gather information on the way.

  The tumanhofer went rigid. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  “It will only take a day or so. We don’t have to search for them. Hollee knows right where their camp is.”

  Hollee frowned. This dangerous mission might not be enjoyable. Still, The Grawl couldn’t see her, and she found the intruders fascinating.

  Bealomondore shook his head and backed up another step. “No, thank you. I am quite content to do what I do best. I am recording this culture for those who will never have the pleasure of living among the kimens.”

  Fenworth let out an exasperated sigh. “Librettowit.”

  “What?”

  Giggling, Hollee explained, “The librarian is writing a paper to be published. On kimens. He plans another on ropmas.”

  “Tumanhofers!” The wizard took his hat off and rammed it back on his head.

  Hollee frowned. She was sure the paper was on kimens.

  Wizard Fenworth pulled his beard, and Hollee hopped to a different position to see what creatures fell out. She counted two beetles, a salamander, and a centipede.

  Fenworth paced back and forth in the small area cluttered with the artist’s tools and pictures. Bealomondore jumped to save an easel from crashing to the ground.

  “Tumanhofers are infuriating travel companions. They can always think of a reason to procrastinate.” Fenworth stopped in front of Bealomondore. “You’re a hero, man. Act like one.”

  “No, I’m an artist
. And I am acting like one.”

  “Weren’t you with us on the quest? Yes, you were. I remember. We found the statues, vanquished insidious evil. The entire journey was great as far as questing and heroing goes. But you’ve just had a small taste of victory over disaster. Surely you long for more.”

  “Yes, I admit I had my bite of conquering villains, and because of it, I’m up to my gullet with the unpleasant business.”

  Hollee cringed. Would her chance for adventure be smashed by this reluctant tumanhofer?

  The wizard sighed, flapped his arms against his sides, and nodded. “I don’t really blame you. I hate questing myself. It’s a most uncomfortable business.” He grasped the lapels of his robe and laid his chin on his chest, frowning ferociously. “But I want to see this thing called The Grawl. Must be some kind of grawlig with a name like that, and grawligs are ornery, not particularly dangerous.”

  Wizard Fenworth reached inside his robe and searched his pockets. “Tut, tut, oh dear. Have I forgotten them?”

  Bealomondore lifted an eyebrow and watched the other man with unbridled suspicion on his face. “What are you looking for?”

  “Things.”

  “What things?”

  “Ah, here’s one now.” Fenworth pulled a sword from a hollow just as he might pull it from a sheath. “A warrior’s sword. Very handy.” He held it out to the tumanhofer. “Hold this.”

  Bealomondore hesitated, then took the weapon. The weight of it pulled his arm down so the tip touched the floor.

  Fenworth continued his rummaging. “Here somewhere. Tut, tut. What’s this?” He brought forth a scrap of cloth. “I haven’t the foggiest idea where this came from.”

  Hollee eyed him, wondering what fantastic thing he might do with that bit of material. He blew his nose on the scrap, took off his hat, and poked the makeshift handkerchief inside.