The Dragon Wrath: Book Two of the Arlon Prophecies Page 10

  “But, please, your Excellency,” he protested. “She has been a great helper and protector of all of those with the Mark of Power.” Arlon pointed at the others. “We all owe our very lives to her. Trilyra is a warrior.”

  There was an explosion of laughter.

  The mocking began with Mogg and his closest advisors and then rippled throughout the still-gathering crowd. Arlon was totally shocked by the uproar as it intensified quickly. He traded glances with each of his friends. They all shook their heads in disbelief.

  Mogg seemed to be struggling to catch his breath. “A warrior? Her?!” He nearly doubled-over and spread his hands wide. “A woman of the south?!”

  Arlon could barely feel the heat of his own emotion rising into his face, but he could actually see it rising on Trilyra’s. He knew that look. That rage. He remembered the Day of the Offering. Arlon reached out to restrain her.

  But it was too late.

  Oh no.

  Trilyra darted towards Kurric in a lightning-fast blur. In a single motion, she snatched his long-knife, tucked into a roll and came up just under Mogg’s chin.

  The laughter died. Everywhere. Instantly.

  It was eerie. Only the faintest echoes of their former mockery and the soft rushing of water lingered on in the huge cavern. Over a dozen Therion warriors brandished javelins or knives and immediately closed in while encircling the threat. Arlon didn’t know whether to stay or to run.

  He froze.

  So did everyone else.

  He glanced over at her without making any sudden moves or twitches. Trilyra…what are you doing?!

  In a very deliberate and quiet move, Mogg raised his right arm, ever so slowly, until it was fully extended overhead. “Kurric!” he cried out. “It is an ill thought. You…and your men, lower your weapons.” His eyes flitted around. “The Vish’tar of the Kla’aven Mage commands you…lower your weapons!” They obeyed with a fair amount of visible reluctance. “Back away. This is the will of your Vish’tar!” The tight circle of guards loosened considerably.

  Arlon tried to make eye contact with Trilyra. Come on…let the Therion king go, he shouted to her in his mind. Let’s play nice with the people that could kill us all in about five seconds. We’ve already got the Order and the Dragon out to get us. Why do we wanna make even more enemies?!

  His silent pleadings must have had some effect. The next second, Trilyra relaxed her knife hand and lowered Kurric’s blade very gradually. She never blinked and she never took her narrowed eyes off of Mogg as she cautiously slid away from her motionless victim.

  Arlon relaxed as well and enjoyed a deep breath (his first in a while). Good girl. Now, hand the big knife back to the king of the forest devils. And then pray we don’t die a swift and horrible death.

  Trilyra’s eyes remained transfixed on Mogg as she carefully rotated the blade before offering it to him, hilt first. His eyes flicked back and forth between the gleaming weapon and her serious eyes several times.

  Come on, Mogg, Arlon thought. Take the blade from the good girl and let’s all just calm down. Quick flashes of his mother’s horrendous tales about the fierce brutality of the Therion crowded into his terrified mind. He tried to push them away.

  Trilyra tendered the knife even closer. “I am a warrior,” she said proudly. “But I am not your enemy.”

  Good line, good line, Arlon applauded inwardly. That’s the spirit.

  Mogg nodded with a strange smile. “Keep the blade, woman of the south.” He buried his right hand under his cloak and retrieved a similar weapon. He used it to firmly push hers back. “The Vish’tar of the Kla’aven Mage has his own.” He inched even closer and gritted his teeth. “And he wields it with skill. And honor.”

  Mogg motioned to his guards to spread out into a wider circle. “Your Vish’tar will show this Vice what it means to be a warrior.” An excited murmur shot through the mob as the crowd pressed even closer to behold the spectacle.

  “Prepare yourself, woman of the south,” he said with a voice of authority, raising his knife. “Retrieve my blade, or draw my blood. Then, and only then, will you preserve your life and preserve your honor.”

  Paymer, Hort and the Princess rushed over and huddled close to Arlon just outside the ring. Paymer was flat out panicking.

  “This is bad, bad, bad,” he whispered. “He’s gonna kill her! We need to do something!”

  “Come on,” Arlon urged firmly, “let’s stay positive. You’ve seen her in action…she might win this thing.”

  “Killing animals with a bow is one thing,” Mae’Lee whimpered. “But fighting hand to hand is dreadful. Just dreadful! I can’t bear to watch.”

  “But…what if she wins?” Hort asked nervously. “What if she kills him? What will they do to us? We’re in real trouble!”

  The color drained from Arlon’s face.

  Wow, Hort is right.

  Either outcome is horrible.

  Winning would be losing.

  And losing would be losing.

  “It’s starting!” Paymer whispered.

  The two combatants invested a good deal of time circling near the ragged edge of the ring, studying each other in a tense, silent battle of the wills. Mogg began stepping forward, methodically tightening up the distance between them to the delight of his people. He tossed his blade back and forth from hand to hand, and adjusted from a forehand to a backhand style with flawless fluidity.

  “She’s in big trouble,” Paymer mourned. “He’s good.”

  “He may be good,” Arlon replied. “But she’s fast. I thought you bragged about how good she was at the games at Karaval?”

  Paymer frowned. “She was good, but this isn’t a game, pal. Those are real knives.”

  Mae’Lee refused to budge. “I’m still not watching.”

  Paymer got excited. “Here she goes!”

  Trilyra executed a few rapid advances, then swift retreats. Mogg matched her intimidation with his own impressive volley of strong lunges. He smiled. She didn’t.

  More circling.

  Mogg rushed.

  CLINK!

  Their blades finally struck with a spray of sparks and then withdrew. The confident Therion spun around and took up a low, threatening posture with his arms spread wide. Mogg snorted with the thrill of battle and growled using a low, animal-like rumble. Trilyra sliced back and forth rapidly as she pressed forward. He dodged and swerved, staying low without losing his cocky smile. She lunged again and Mogg just slapped her in the back as she passed by. The crowd erupted in laughter, and he couldn’t help but gloat.

  “Tell me, woman of the south…is this a battle or a dance?”

  More chuckles.

  “Finish this Vice!” Kurric hollered through cupped hands.

  Mogg glanced over. “It shall be done in short order, my trusted friend. And then I will deliver your blade to a child…for safekeeping.”

  The audience roared; Mogg looked out at them and bowed slightly.

  Trilyra seized on the opportunity and bolted at her distracted foe. Their blades CLINKED twice and Mogg almost jabbed his knife into her thigh, but she tucked and rolled out of harm’s way and plowed into the legs of a Therion guard. He instantly kicked her back into play with a powerful shove.

  “Whoa! That was too close,” Paymer conceded.

  Mae’Lee continued to face away from the fight. “Is, uh, is she…alright?”

  “She’s holding on,” Paymer replied. “But I don’t know for how much longer. I think that freak is just toying with her.”

  Arlon shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s all part of an act. Maybe she is toying with him.”

  Mogg squinted and hunkered forward. “The time to end this is now.” He scrambled directly at her with his knife held aloft, ready to plunge down. She barely had time to brace herself as she caught his powerful forearm with her left hand, while he seized her upraised knife arm as well. They shook and shuddered under the opposing strain, with each of them desperate
to fend off a lethal blade just inches away.

  Trilyra began to gradually buckle.

  “She’s folding,” Paymer groaned.

  “May the Zho help her,” Mae’Lee prayed.

  Hort looked away. “This could be it.”

  Mogg continued to tower over her dwindling resistance as the crowd whipped itself up into a wild frenzy. The absolute fear filling Trilyra’s eyes seemed to intoxicate the vicious Therion leader with even more power. His grin expanded as the veins in his thick neck bulged with intensity. Her trembling right knee slammed into the ground while her entire body quivered on the verge of total collapse.

  “Oh, no!” Arlon exclaimed.

  Paymer glanced down. “I just pray that she doesn’t suffer.”

  Mae’Lee burst into hot, uncontrollable tears.

  The echoing roar of the spectators grew unbearable. Two seconds later, a piercing scream erupted from Trilyra’s lips as she crumpled backward into the damp, packed dirt. Mogg’s fearful form came crashing down upon her with certain death. Trilyra, now flat on her back, thrust her legs upward and tossed him overhead in a wide arc. The length of Mogg’s body smashed into the ground while Trilyra leveraged her own momentum to flip over and land atop him in a straddled position. A fraction of an instant later, she had wrestled both knives loose and held them just above his stunned face.

  Trilyra raised her right arm and rammed her elbow squarely into the center of her foe’s unprotected face. His nose exploded in a shower of blood that splattered his cheeks and trickled into his eyes and mouth.

  Arlon gulped. “Oh…wow.”

  “I…I don’t believe it,” Paymer muttered.

  Hort’s hands traveled up to his trembling lips. “She wins. Now what?”

  Arlon’s mind raced. I’m afraid…we lose.

  Trilyra arched forward and glared down at Mogg. “As I said…I am a warrior,” she announced defiantly, still a bit out of breath. With a quick flick she flung both long-blades to the side and rolled off of him.

  “…but I am not your enemy.”

  CHAPTER 19

  They were hopelessly outnumbered.

  He counted fourteen Therion guards standing inside the room’s perimeter.

  All had javelins.

  Most had long-knives.

  None had smiles.

  As Arlon lowered himself down onto the flat, red pillow that served as his chair, he studied the curious, round chamber. The walls were constructed of perfectly straight, branchless, tree trunks jammed together so tightly that Arlon doubted if a skinny knife blade could slip between them. Colorful tapestries were draped throughout at various heights and often overlapped one another. The Dunamai mark, in various colors and sizes, adorned many of them. The largest stretch of fabric, located directly behind a seated Mogg, contained an embroidery of an enormous leaf.

  A familiar leaf.

  Arlon’s eyebrows shot up.

  The red leaf!

  His gaze drifted higher.

  What? A fire? In a mirror? Now that’s interesting, he thought. But where’s the smoke?

  There was no ceiling overhead, but a bowl-like structure containing a raging fire was suspended from the tips of the tall wall posts. Curving above that was an even larger, polished metal dish which indirectly reflected the firelight down upon the official meeting chamber. The abundance of light was impressive, but the lack of smoke even more so.

  Eventually, Arlon’s inquisitive eyes returned to the solemn gathering down below. With the exception of the guards and Trilyra (who was seated behind her friends), everyone sat in a loose ring in the center of the chamber. Mogg was perched atop the largest red pillow, flanked by six stoic elders, three branching out on either side. The four Dunamai formed the remainder of the circle. Just off to his left, Arlon spotted a pile consisting of their confiscated satchels and weapons.

  He secretly hoped that his Rone necklace was still there as well.

  Mogg glared at them. “I adjure you by the Red Leaf, why have the Vice favored with the Mark of Power entered the lands of the Kray?” he demanded in a bold, serious voice. “Have you come to challenge the Vish’tar of the Kla’aven Mage? Have you come to subdue all six of the Kla’aven of the Kray?”

  Silence ruled as the Dunamai all took turns trading terrified glances at each other.

  “Do not seek to deceive the Vish’tar,” Mogg warned, spreading his hands apart. “It would be an ill thought. Speak!”

  Paymer leaned over and bumped Arlon’s right shoulder. “Speak,” he whispered. “And make it good.”

  Mae’Lee squeezed Arlon’s left hand. “You can do this.”

  Arlon cleared his nervous and dry throat. He made his best attempt at a sincere smile. “Your Excellency…we have not come into your lands to challenge your…leadership or to bring any harm to you or your great people.”

  “That’s a good start,” Paymer whispered in encouragement. “Keep it rolling.”

  Arlon straightened up. “But, your Excellency, we have come seeking your protection and…your…aid on a great journey.”

  Mogg narrowed his eyes. “The Vice has come seeking the protection of the Kray?” He shot a hasty glance over at one of the elders on his left. The advisor raised his hands up to his chest before spreading them out wide. Mogg frowned at Arlon. “It is an ill thought. Such a proposal is unknown in the history of our people.”

  “But it is true, your Excellency,” Arlon blurted out.

  “What is true,” Mogg shouted, almost rising off his seat, “is that two of our honorable warriors have passed into the Great Kla’aven, and the skies have lost a mighty Kylldor because of your trespass into our lands! And yet you speak of seeking protection?!”

  “But, but we were attacked, your Excellency,” Arlon pleaded. “We acted only in self-defense. Our lives have been in peril day and night since we began our journey. Many have sought to kill us.”

  “You do,” Mogg retorted, looking away, “as the Vice have always done.”

  “My lord, you must believe me. We have not come to you in power or…or as a threat…but as weak, as hungry, as tired fugitives.” He paused. “We share a common enemy, your Excellency.”

  Mogg squinted and leaned forward. “Kla’aven Mage has many enemies, perhaps even in this council room.”

  Arlon swallowed hard. “We are not your enemies, your Excellency. But there is one enemy that threatens all our peoples. All kingdoms everywhere. One who unleashes fire and death wherever he chooses.”

  A serious look overtook Mogg’s face as he brought his palms together slowly. “It is well-spoken.”

  “You know of whom I speak.”

  Mogg nodded. “The Dragon.”

  “The Dragon,” Arlon repeated quietly. “He is a monster, a curse, a terror to all of our lands. We have seen him kill. He is coming for us, your Excellency. He will kill us all.”

  Mogg’s long, black locks hung down around his expressionless face as he lowered his gaze into his own lap. “The flying beast has already brought death to our lands,” he mourned. “He has sent many…many of our warriors and people to the Great Kla’aven.” Mogg locked eyes with Arlon. “Many villages of the Kla’aven Mage have perished. Many of our children have perished.”

  A respectful silence filled the room. Only the flickering flames overhead dared to create the slightest of sounds.

  Mogg furrowed his brow and coughed. “The beast has tormented my dreams of late, even as the torment of Dreadwood.” He paused and looked down again. “Its foul voice calls to me in my thoughts, echoing as that which echoes in a deep cave.”

  Arlon seized their common ground. “It torments all of those with the Mark of Power, my lord. And it brings cursing and death to all the kingdoms, to all the lands. It cares nothing for your forests or your people.”

  Arlon glanced around at his friends. Paymer looked excited. Mae’Lee…troubled. Hort…terrified (as usual). Trilyra seemed her normal mix of anger and impatience. “Your Excellency,” he continued, “we
are on a great journey. To the north. We believe that we will find those who can help us. People of great wisdom.”

  Mogg’s head bolted upward. “The Northern Elders?”

  The Northern Elders? Arlon wondered. Is that the same as the Sevasti? They are in the north. Most of them are probably old. North. Elders. Why not?

  “Uh, yes, my lord,” he agreed. “The Northern Elders. We, uh, believe that they can help us…overcome the Dragon, our common enemy.”

  Another awkward period of silence.

  Arlon desperately scanned for any indication that the icy disposition of the Therion might be warming. He hoped to catch even the tiniest sliver of the very beginning of a small grin.

  Mogg hunkered over to his right and conferred feverishly with two of his gray-haired advisors. Still no smiles.

  Paymer leaned over as well. “You’re doing great with these murderous freaks, Arlon,” he muttered just below a coarse whisper. “I may look good, but you—you—talk good. And if I would’ve done the talking…well, let’s just say that we would probably be, you know, dead right now. I don’t have anything good to say to them.” He patted Arlon’s arm. “So, yeah. Thanks. Hort thinks you’re doing great, too.” He grabbed his neighbor’s shoulder. “Don’t you, our man from the port?”

  Hort fabricated the worst phony grin that Arlon had probably ever seen. Thanks, Arlon thought. I know you mean well, my friend.

  “Just promise me that we’re going to get through this dreadful mess,” Mae’Lee beckoned discreetly from the other side. Their eyes met. “Promise me.”

  He struggled hard to be more reassuring than Hort. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Hey look, we survived days and nights of dangerous wilderness travel. We’ve survived an attack from the Order. We’ve even survived the Dragon. And this? This little…obstacle will be over soon. We will be on our way before you know it.”

  Her deep brown eyes were flooded with hopeful tears. “Promise?”

  “I Promise.”

  I hope.

  Arlon’s gaze kept wandering up to the enormous red leaf embroidery suspended on the wall behind the Therion leader. He glanced over at the pile of their satchels ten feet away.