Knights of Aralia Book II: Evil Rising

Chapter IV: Departure (Part II)

“See what?” asked Béragon, immediately alert.

“I saw it too,” said Ingred. “There was something moving beside those trees over there.”

“What sort of something?” asked Fordain, instantly by their side.

“I...I don’t know,” she admitted. “I only caught a glimpse.”

“Do you think they could be farm workers or villagers of some sort?”

“There are no trails leading to a village in that direction,” Elagor pointed out. “And I see neither crops nor animals in this area.”

“Should we go investigate?” asked Wavae, looking excited at the very prospect.

“No!” Fordain replied sharply. “We’ve a long way to go before we reach the Elder’s Tower, and the last thing we need is to get side tracked. Besides, the sun’s going down. Not a good time to go exploring unfamiliar woods.”

“So then, what do we do, Lieutenant?” asked Morgan.

“I should think it’s obvious. We’ll need to pitch camp soon. But we should put some distance between ourselves and those woods first. If there are enemy raiding parties about, we’ll want to see them coming from as far off as possible.”

“Onward we ride, then,” said Elagor.

“Onward we ride. But stay sharp.”

Thus, they continued a little longer until the sun was nearly gone from the sky. The woods, like the ridge before, were well out of sight. They camped instead in a wide-open meadow where the grasses had grown tall with the onset of spring. They decided against a fire, taking their supper cold. But when it came to choosing watches, they went in pairs. Béragon and Wavae took first watch together, followed by Fordain and Evander, then finally Morgan and Elagor. Despite having double the guard, some found it difficult to sleep on realizing that they might well have seen Aylarine raiders today. And what was more, those raiders could have been watching them too. Perhaps even watching their every move throughout the night!

Daylight was a welcome sight, though some were wakened more by the sound of a Draga farmer from a homestead about half a mile away grazing his animals than by the sun.

“What news from abroad?” asked Fordain.

“Not a whole lot,” he told them in plain Western Speech. “Which is good, if you ask me. There was a report of another raid on a caravan just last week, though, so if you’re taking the roads further east you’d best beware. Trade’s grown a lot scarcer from that direction in the past months, and it ain’t because of any shortage on the other side of the mountains.”

They thanked him for the warning and set off again. For several days afterward they made good progress, and once stayed the night in the care and company of a kind Draga family which lived and worked on a forty-acre plot of land all its own. They were a welcoming lot compared to those farther south, inviting the travellers to come in and make themselves at home in the upstairs rooms. The knights accepted the invitation, and got to spend a much more comfortable night under the roof of the family without any need to post a watch. As it turned out, it was a good thing they had, for the morning revealed that a massive torrent of rain had fallen while they were safe indoors.

The travel of the ninth day was no less a trek than those before, made more challenging still by the humidity of the previous night’s rainfall in the air. They came to a small lake just before sundown, near which they set up a camp and cooking fire.

“Cor, but it’s hot this evenin’!” spoke Evander as they were watering their horses. “An’ this ain’t even proper summer yet.”

“There’s an easy solution to that, mate,” said Fordain.

“What’s that?”

Fordain nodded toward the lake. “Take a swim in there. That’ll cool you off. In fact, I think I might just try it myself.”

“We could all do with a wash of some sort, I agree,” Wavae chimed in. “It’s been ages since we last saw a bathhouse.”

“Perhaps,” said Béragon in reluctant agreement. “But we should take it in turns, just to be sure we’re not caught unprepared should unwelcome guests come calling.”

“A fine suggestion,” said Fordain. “Evander and I’ll go first.”

So, as soon as they were done watering the horses, the young knights took turns washing themselves in the lake. Morgan and Elagor hated swimming in cold water, especially when they had nothing to properly dry themselves with save the rough wool of their cloaks, so they opted to merely wash their faces and hands. But the rest left their belongings on shore and went for a full swim like they often did in the sea back in Aralia. It was great fun for all, and with the rest watching on shore, they were even able to forget their troubles for a time.

A short while afterward, they were seated around their campfire, drying out and supping on warm bread and cheese, as well as a little bit of fruit they had been graciously given by the Draga family they had stayed with.

“Mm. You know, this actually feels pretty nice,” remarked Wavae as he swallowed a bite. “I can see why you and your Noronir prefer to live without clothes, Fordain.”

“Aye,” said Evander. “It’s quite freein’.”

“It has it’s downsides,” Fordain conceded. “Especially to those who aren’t used to it. But it’s how the Arden meant for us to exist, and we wouldn’t choose to live any other way.”

“Well, personally, I’ve had plenty of freedom for this evening,” spoke Béragon, standing up. “I’m for covering up before bed. It can still get cold at night, you know.”

“Not me,” said Wavae. “I think I’ll take the risk.”

Thus, Béragon and eventually Ingred got dressed while the rest lay down as they were, though they kept their weapons close at hand. Out in the open, they resumed keeping a watch for Aylar overnight. Though they had not seen any signs of them for several days now, in a hilly region where foes could appear with little warning, they did not want to take any chances.

They woke to find a small cattle herd taking water at the edge of the lake. The herdsdrake proved a friendly enough fellow despite his imposing physique and the crossbow he carried over his shoulder. He even stopped to talk with them for a bit over breakfast.

“Aye, there’ve been a few raids in the area of late,” he confirmed as he squatted beside their fire using his tail like a third limb to hold himself up. It looked like a rather uncomfortable position to Fordain, but the dragon sat and even ate like this as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “That’s why I always carry these around now.” He patted the quiver of crossbow bolts hanging at his side from a belt tied loosely about his naked waist. “Sometimes them Aylar strike whole settlements in large groups, but other times it’s just a foraging party out to nick a couple of cattle. I can’t deal with the former if they come along, but I’m more ‘n prepared to deal with the latter.”

“Arden forbid you should have to ward off such an attack, good sir,” said Fordain. “But it’s good to see the people of the Westerveld haven’t lost their spirit.”

“We haven’t survived for thousands of years on these plains by bending a knee every time some new hardship comes our way, young un. This is just another trial the Arden’s sent us to test our mettle.”

Fordain’s respect for the farmer and his people grew on hearing this. When they had finished eating, the dragon stood up and wished them a safe journey as they continued on, warning them to “Keep on the move as much as possible. Still targets are their favourite.”

Thereafter Fordain, Wavae, and Evander put their clothes and armour back on and the party continued northward. They were fairly confident based on their map that they would reach the Elder’s Tower soon. By midday, they had come from the hilly region where they started to a flatter, broader region with taller, wilder-looking grass growing here and there. As the sun reached its peak in the sky, they came to a final, high hill overlooking the plains that stretched out for miles beyond in every direction. They halted briefly there to take a good look at the scenery: the brightest and most beautiful they had yet come to in their overland sojourn.

The fields before them were covered in large, vibrantly coloured grass which grew higher than a Draga stood tall. The grasses were in all different stages of colour at this time of the year, from golden-yellow to rusty orange and red, and maintained a slight lustre in the sun’s light. The wind swept across this region in gusts, causing them to bend to and fro. The swaying motion made the entire field look like an undulating sea of fire.

“They call this region the Fields of Flame,” remarked Béragon with wonder. “Now I know why.”

“Why don’t they ‘arvest it?” asked Evander, his background coming to the fore. “It looks as though it’s in its prime just now.”

“You can’t eat it, Evander,” said Ingred. “The Draga soon discovered that when they settled the plain. It gives one a rather nauseous feeling in the stomach, and has more unpleasant effects afterward. It can be admired for its beauty, nothing more. That’s why it was eradicated nearly everywhere but here. And the occasional garden, of course.”

“And look over there!” exclaimed Morgan. “That must be the Tower of the Elders. I’ve seen several illustrations of it, but they really don’t do it justice.”

It was a tall structure, standing well over twice the height of Aralia’s Great Hall. The top was adorned with a pair of peaks made to resemble a Flamewing’s outspread wings. In spite of its enormously tall appearance, however, it possessed only three stacked chambers, each with a vast space between the floor and the ceiling. From where they stood, they could just discern the Darkclaw Mountains as a fuzzy, jagged line many miles beyond it to the north.

“Well, come on, then,” said Fordain, taking the lead. “We’re not getting any closer here. Let’s follow this path through the field.”

The others followed close behind their leader. One by one they descended the hill and passed into the tall grass. From atop their mounts they could see quite clearly over the top of the grass, though their horses could see no farther than the width of the trail allowed. It was a longer path than it had appeared from up on the ridgeline, twisting and turning at the most arbitrary moments. There was even a stream crossing at one point.

“Must be the first trailblazers’ idea of a joke on all those who came after,” commented Wavae.

For once, Béragon agreed with him. Still, there were no false paths, and the creatures sheltering in the grass made no attempts to stand in their way. Thus, by the middle of the afternoon, they had reached the base of the Elder’s Tower.

Around it was a stone courtyard, which was further surrounded by a ring of enormous rocks. They were arranged with some pattern in mind, though the Aralians could not quite figure out what purpose they served. They were stopped at the arched entrance by a pair of guards, one large and green, and the other grey with suspicious eyes.

“What brings knights of Alenius here?” asked the green one, whose tawny eyes shimmered in the daylight.

“We have come to see the Elder of Hengoroth,” answered Fordain. “We are to deliver a message to him from the King of Aralia. It is a matter of great importance.”

“Hast thou proof o’ thy allegiance?” asked the grey one, a female, eying them carefully.

“Oy!” Evander blurted out. “Tha speakest like a Northy!”

“That I do, lad,” she replied with a wink at Evander. “Which ain’t a surprise, seein’s ‘ow I’m from th’town o’ Lutra in th’northeast of Emprius.”

“How’d thou end up ‘ere?”

“Family affairs, mate. Had a sick granmum t’look after.”

“Int’restin’.” Evander looked sheepishly at Fordain. “Sorry t’interrupt, mate.”

“What proof of allegiance do you desire?” resumed Fordain, who had not foreseen this obstacle. “I have my word as a Lieutenant of the Aralian Wolves and the letter I bear from Lord Elezier, but that is confidential.”

“That is well,” said the dragoness. “Might we see the seal upon the letter?”

Fordain gave it to them, and they checked the seal and signature, then handed it back.

“All in order,” said the grey one. “We merely ask that you give up your arms while inside an’ pledge t’do no ‘arm to th’Elder.”

“What ever for!” exclaimed Elagor, offended by their mistrust. “Just because I carry a sword does not mean I intend to use it.”

“Worry not, warrior of Alenius. We’ll look after ev’ry arrow in thy quiver, an’ thy sword too. ‘Tis just a precaution, mind.”

“By which we shall readily abide,” said Fordain, much relieved. He then dismounted. “Is there a place for our horses as well?”

“Certainly,” replied the green. “We’ll take care of them too. All who come to this tower are well tended.”

“Thank you,” said Fordain on behalf of the party, and they crossed the courtyard to reach the tower entrance.

Several of the stones used to pave the courtyard were coloured red or yellow. While they seemed to be in a random pattern to the Aralians, they were actually arranged so that, from high up in the air, they looked very much like a red Flamewing with its wings outspread and spouting fire. Such was the craftwork that only the Flamewings themselves could devise. At the door they were met by a lone Draga whose less prominent horns showed that he was still well immersed in his drakehood, as Drakonic youth was called. He wore a tunic of blue, tan shorts, and a red kerchief rakishly askew.

“Welcome to the Elder’s Tower,” he said with a respectful bow as he ushered them inside. “I am Ralor.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Fordain, bowing in return.

The Elder’s Tower was not an ancient structure by Drakonic standards. Having been built only four hundred years before, there were still quite a few Draga who remembered their grandparents talking about it. It was built with the intention of serving as a home, a refuge, and a study for the Draga Elders, and in most dire need, a stronghold as well. The floors were made of smooth marble that caused a Draga’s claws to click noticeably as he walked across its polished surface, and possessed a bluish black hue that complemented well the walls of similar construction. The cavernous ceiling in the main entry chamber created an echo if one talked at a normal tone of voice, but was not so bad at a whisper. There was a small room with a rug and a few chairs by a large fireplace just off to the left of the entrance for receiving guests, and this was where the young knights were led by Ralor.

“You live with the Elder, Ralor?” asked Ingred.

Ralor nodded. “That’s right. For most of my life, actually.”

“You must get along splendidly with your grandsire then.”

“Oh, I’m not his grandson,” corrected Ralor politely, his voice cracking on the word not. “I’m rather his ward, if you will.”

“Are you serving him in some sort of apprenticeship, then?” asked Fordain.

“Yes, something like that, I suppose,” answered Ralor vaguely.

“You seem rather young for that kind of responsibility,” remarked Ingred.

“I just turned fourteen, my lady,” replied the youngster proudly.

“I see. Do you see your parents often, Ralor?”

“Oh! Er...My parents haven’t been around for a while. I prefer not to talk about it.”

“I apologize, then,” added Ingred quickly. “I meant no offence by asking.”

“None taken, don’t worry. I shall go and inform the Elder of your arrival now.”

He left the room and closed the doors carefully behind. He took his time coming back, and in the meantime the Aralians looked around. They were tempted to sit down, but as there were not enough chairs for all of them, and as they had not been invited to do so, they remained politely standing. Everything here was kept inordinately neat, no doubt thanks to the ceaseless work of Ralor, who was helped by the fact that not many visitors came to see the Elder out in his country summer home. After about ten minutes, Ralor was back with them. He shut the doors quietly behind him and walked over with that soft click click click. Some Draga were known to wear claw covers when indoors to prevent floor scratching, but evidently Elder Vargon did not think it important.

“The Elder will be out in a moment,” he informed them.

“This is truly a wonderful structure here, Ralor,” commented Morgan. “I’ve never seen this type of dwelling before, even in Aralia where we have many Draga.”

“Yes, it is a pretty unique place, I guess,” said Ralor, looking around at the familiar surroundings. “Unless you have to tidy it up all the time. With the Elder around, that becomes a real labour sometimes. It’s not that he’s inconsiderate, of course: never one to mistreat a book or a visitor. It’s just that he gets so tied up in his studies at times, he forgets about some of the other things he’s been doing and leaves them unattended to for hours, or even days.”

“Tell us, Ralor,” spoke Ingred. “What is Elder Vargon like?”

“Oh, he’s a wonderful sort. Kindly, understanding, and wise as they come. He never loses his temper when you do wrong, but always says when you’ve done right. I daresay he’s the greatest Draga Elder there’s ever been.”

“I don’t know if he is that great, Ralor. We all have our faults,” came a voice from off to the left, which gave them a start. It was a voice at once strong and ancient, and one which carried with it the deep and infinite wisdom of ages long past. They turned around in a trice.

Before them stood a tall Draga with light grey scales and cloudy eyes to match. He was old, as they could tell by the faded hue of his scales, and he leaned on a staff about as tall as he was. Nevertheless, he was very robust for a dragon of his age. His only garment was a dark grey robe of cotton tied closed at the waist, which left exposed a V-shaped section of his broad, chalky white chest. They could read kindness in his face, and sensed in him an instant and steadfast ally. The seven Aralians and Ralor bowed in the display of deep respect toward a Draga.

“Greetings, young warriors,” he said in the same powerful voice. “I am Elder Vargon.”