The Dragon Wrath: Book Two of the Arlon Prophecies Page 11

  “My lord,” Arlon called out.

  Mogg peered up from his deliberations.

  “My lord,” Arlon continued, “we wish to offer you a gift.”

  “What is this…gift?”

  Arlon gestured. “If I may get my belongings? Not my sword, but my bag. It’s right over there.”

  Mogg brought his hands together with the smallest of nods. “It is well-spoken.”

  Paymer slid sidewise. “I’m pretty sure that means ‘Yes’ in Therion-speak, pal.”

  Arlon rose carefully and strolled over to the jumbled stockpile. He opened his satchel and retrieved something, but kept it hidden from view under his shirt. After pivoting back around, he came to a standstill just behind his pillow.

  “Your Excellency, we offer this token of our truthfulness…and of our goodwill towards you and your people.” With his final syllables, Arlon withdrew the incredibly vibrant form of the red leaf and held it up high.

  Their immediate reaction was nothing short of astonishing. Every single elder clambered to his feet and all of them stared in silent wonder alongside a visibly-stunned Mogg. “The Red Leaf,” he muttered, slowly reaching for it in awe.

  Paymer’s upward-turned face contorted as he tugged on Arlon’s pant leg. “Whoa, pal! What?! Where did you get that?”

  Arlon ignored him. “It is a gift, your Excellency. For you. And your people.” Arlon circled around to his left and hand-delivered the mysterious artifact. Mogg cupped his trembling palms and seemed almost too terrified to touch it.

  Arlon lowered it reverently. “This is proof that I spoke the truth. We are not your enemies, my lord. We only ask that you allow us to return to our great journey to the Northern Elders, and perhaps that you could share some provisions as well.”

  Mogg’s advisors clustered around him and gawked at the delicate crimson treasure. Arlon retreated quietly as they exchanged excited outbursts and a fair amount of tears. Even the guards around the perimeter couldn’t seem to resist inching forward and sneaking a few peeks.

  Finally. Some smiles.

  The ice is starting to break.

  Arlon dropped back down onto his pillow and waited. The Princess studied him. “You are full of surprises, Arlon of near Long Port. My mother was right about you.”

  Mother? Arlon’s interest shot up. Did she just say ‘Mother’? “Really?” he asked (a bit more excited than he meant to). “What did she—“

  “Hey, you,” Trilyra called out, managing to scoot quite a bit closer. “That little trick may have just saved our lives,” she whispered. “If we get out of here, remind me to cut you a break on our next weapon’s practice.” She winked.

  “Two breaks,” he replied, twisting around. “So…did I do alright for a no-chainer, no-brainer?”

  She slapped his shoulder playfully.

  “And I thought that I was a magician,” Paymer declared. “But, you…you really pulled that thing out of nowhere. Wow.”

  Arlon snuck a glance over at Hort. He only looked half as terrified as before.

  Well…that’s an improvement.

  The tight crowd around Mogg began to disperse somewhat, and he stared across at the Dunamai. “Your trespass against our lands is forgiven,” he announced unexpectedly. He jabbed his finger out towards Trilyra. “The woman of the south…it is the will of the Vish’tar that she will not die for her attack upon our Kylldor.”

  Arlon felt like crying, smiling, yelling, and dancing all at the same time. Paymer nearly tackled him and the Princess hugged his left arm like a cherished doll.

  “You okay over there, Hort?” he asked, struggling to lean forward against Paymer’s joyful onslaught.

  “Well…I don’t wanna throw up anymore,” Hort responded, still white-faced.

  Arlon’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ll take that as a big ‘Yes.’”

  “You mean…as a big it is well-spoken,” Paymer teased quietly.

  Trilyra squeezed between them. “If you don’t stop talking like that, Paymer…I’m going to get an ill thought.”

  Mogg motioned to his guards. “Return the belongings to the Vice,” he ordered.

  Kurric spoke up as a flurry of activity broke out. “What of their weapons, my Vish’tar?”

  Mogg brought his hands together. “It is well-spoken. Return their weapons as well.”

  Trilyra wasted absolutely no time in leaping up to retrieve her bow and quiver. Two Therion guards were almost bowled over as she pushed her way through, grabbing and tossing the swords over to the others. “Look alive boys!”

  Arlon caught his blade midair before scrambling for his satchel and frantically searching inside every corner and under every flap.

  Ah, there it is! he sighed.

  Seconds later, Kash’s precious gift was dangling around his relieved neck once again.

  Mogg ventured a few steps closer. “The people of the Kla’aven Mage will attend to your needs. First you must bathe…and then rest. Your clothing will be washed and mended.” He started for the exit, surrounded by his advisors, but glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Tonight, you feast as the Kray!”

  CHAPTER 20

  His sleep…wasn’t.

  After a fifth or sixth time waking up in a startled sweat, Arlon almost begged for another dose of Therion sleeping dust. When his guides had finally arrived to escort him to the special feast, Arlon felt even more exhausted than when he had collapsed onto a very comfortable long-pillow two hours earlier.

  But…at least he was clean.

  As were his clothes. More or less.

  “Hello!” Paymer’s distinct voice rang out as Arlon rounded yet another round building (it seemed to be the only shape that the Therion built). The predictable Oranian was flicking a pair of gold royals through his freckled fingers. A half-dozen Therion children had gathered and were admiring the curious redhead from a safe distance. “You look terrible, pal. Lemme guess, trouble sleeping?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Arlon took a moment to survey the unusual dining area and the scores of colorfully-dressed people moving about in a flurry of activity. There were over a hundred pillows and plates plus dozens of hollowed out logs arranged in several neat rows laying along the very flat ground. Up above, a system of wooden catwalks, aqueducts, and yet even more mirrored fire bowls shed soft light over the scene. “So, did you get any rest?”

  Paymer held out a coin and then made it disappear with a snap. The children giggled with delight. “Not hardly a wink. Maybe it’ll be better after my belly’s full. I’m a bit famished.”

  “At this point, I could probably eat a live chicken. Feathers and all.”

  “Don’t joke like that, Arlon of near Long Port.” Both of the boys spun around as a refreshed-looking Mae’Lee sauntered up with her escort. “There’s no telling what will be on the menu tonight.”

  “Princess,” Paymer greeted with a subtle bow. “Looking beautiful. As always.”

  “Thank you, Paymer,” she replied while scanning the area. “Well, this should be an interesting evening.” She pointed at the logs. “What do you think those are for? They’re too narrow to be tables. And I’m sure we will sit on the pillows again.”

  Arlon scratched his forehead and squinted. “Did you guys notice that they’re hollowed out? Almost like small canoes.”

  “Oh,” Mae’Lee reacted. “I see that now.”

  “Well…whatever they are for, I’m sure that we are in for quite a few surprises,” Arlon noted. He swiveled around. “Where’s Hort and that ‘woman of the south’?”

  Paymer grinned as he appeared to pull a pair of gold royals out of Mae’Lee’s hair. “Surely you mean Hort and the Desert Damsel?”

  “I heard that,” a mildly-disgusted yet marginally-friendly voice hollered out.

  Arlon winked and kept his voice low. “You know, for a magician…you have terrible timing.”

  Paymer blushed and tensed up. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize,�
�� Trilyra noted as she joined them. “I think that Damsel Woman of the Desert South has a nice flow to it.”

  They all chuckled.

  Arlon released a smile. It feels good to laugh.

  “There’s Hort from the port,” Paymer pointed out. “He’s certainly looking better. And…there’s our very forgiving Therion host. His nose is certainly looking a lot better.”

  Everyone leered at Trilyra.

  “What?” she replied defensively. “What did you want me to do? Stab him?! It was the quickest way to draw blood without permanently injuring the poor guy. Plus, those were his cursed rules. Not mine.”

  _____________________________________

  It wasn’t Karaval, but the celebration looked and sounded and smelled a lot like Karaval. At least a few hundred guests were in the process of being seated and at least that many rushed about, attending to their every need. From his place of special honor at Mogg’s right hand, Arlon assessed the gathering throng. It was easy to see that many of them were, no doubt, elders of the city, and others (judging by their build and scars) appeared to be powerful, experienced warriors. All of the Therion women, of every age and every size, seemed to be clustered together off to his far left, along with the children.

  “You know, it’s a shame that they’re way over there,” Paymer mumbled, leaning up against Arlon’s right shoulder. “Some of these wild women of the west are downright gorgeous. And better yet…I think they like me.”

  Arlon grinned and cocked his head to the side. “They like you? What makes you so sure?”

  The confident Oranian pointed again. “Look. See the way they stare at me? Even from way over there you can tell.” A young girl passed by and deposited a few trays (of what appeared to be fruit) in front of them. Another trailed behind her and laid a thin metal spike along with a very long wooden tube beside each plate. “And them. Did you see the way those waitress girls snuck a few peeks at me? One of them might’ve even winked. I’m not joking.”

  Arlon fought hard to suppress a small chuckle as he tried to peer through the tiny tube. The puzzling device was nearly as long as his arm. “Um, there are probably two reasons for their interest, my popular friend.”

  Paymer picked up and examined one of the skinny orange foods on the tray. He ran a finger over its shiny texture. “Two reasons, huh? Well…one: my good looks. And two: more of my good looks.”

  “Uh, no. One, your red hair. And two, your freckles. I doubt they’ve ever seen either of those.” Arlon lowered the hollow tube and squinted at him. “You know what, I was wrong…maybe three reasons.”

  Paymer brought the culinary curiosity up to his nose. “Lemme guess…reason number three: yet even more of my good looks?” He inhaled deeply. “This freaky thing smells like…a wild onion.”

  Arlon snatched the item out of his friend’s grasp. “Three: your amazing collection of tattoos.” He checked its aroma. “And it doesn’t smell anything at all like an onion. It smells like an overripe blooddrake.” Arlon tossed it back at him. “I think your sense of smell is just as messed up as your sense of attraction about—”

  “I found out what these hollowed-out logs are for,” Mae’Lee interjected.

  Arlon hunkered forward and stared off to his right. A very skeptical-looking Princess was glaring at him from the other side of Hort. An uncomfortable-looking Trilyra was just beyond her. Mae’Lee tapped on the log out front with her thin tube. “It’s for our drinks.”

  Arlon frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  She nodded while gesturing straight ahead. Arlon watched with growing fascination as several servant girls poured a bluish liquid from large pitchers into the nearby wooden troughs. The guests immediately plunged their straws into the carved out trenches and began drinking.

  “Oh, I get it,” he said, picking up his tube again. “Our drinks.”

  “Now that’s a first,” Paymer quipped, as he began poking and aggravating Hort with his peculiar straw. A pair of servants started to fill the trough in front of the Dunamai.

  A broad smile broke out across Arlon’s face. “I gotta feeling we will see many firsts tonight, my friend.”

  Kurric hurried towards their vicinity and Mogg rose off his cushion. The esteemed warrior placed his right hand on his leader’s chest just above his heart (something Arlon had witnessed many times from a distance). “May peace reign between us.”

  Mogg returned the formal greeting. “Your enemies are my enemies, my brother.” They dropped their arms. “Is all prepared?”

  Kurric brought his hands together. “It is well-spoken.”

  “Then begin the feast,” Mogg ordered.

  Kurric whistled and offered several gestures to a handful of servants training their eyes on him in the distance. The chatting crowd began to settle onto their pillows in subdued yet rapt expectation. Moments later, an endless procession of tray after tray of steaming meats flowed out from a nearby structure.

  Arlon attracted the Vish’tar’s attention as Mogg returned to his seat. “If I may ask, your Excellency…what is the main course tonight? It smells wonderful.”

  Mogg pivoted towards him and pushed his sleeves up. “Are you familiar with the tender meat of the Altryx?” he inquired.

  “My ears have heard of this animal, your Excellency. But my eyes have never seen one.”

  “Then the Vice’s tongue has never tasted the delight of the sweetest meat of the woods. Tonight that loss will be made right.”

  “Thank you, your Excellency.”

  Mogg peered out over the crowd with his trademarked flat expression. “What are you called?”

  “I, uh, I am called Arlon. Your Excellency.”

  “Ar-lon,” Mogg repeated. “And what is your Kla’aven, Arlon?”

  Kla’aven? What the heck’s a Kla’aven?

  Paymer came to the rescue. “I think he means kingdom, pal,” he whispered discreetly. “Or at least something like that.”

  “Oh,” Arlon replied quietly. “Yes, well, I am from Soteria. Your Excellency. The kingdom of Soteria. It is to the east of the great river.”

  Mogg nodded slowly and squinted. “Arlon. King of the Kla’aven Soteria.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Arlon countered, beginning to blush. “No, see…I am just Arlon. Arlon of Soteria. I am not a king. Just Arlon. We, uh, we don’t even really have a king in Soteria.”

  Mogg and his nearest advisor swung their puzzled heads to the right. “Arlon is not a king?”

  Panic began to set in. “Uh, yes. Or, no, your Excellency. No, Arlon is not a king…I am not a king or any kind of Vish’tar. If Vish’tar means king.”

  Mogg reached over and touched the back of Arlon’s head. “But the Vice Arlon has the Mark of Power.”

  Think Arlon, think!

  Things were going so well. Don’t ruin this.

  “Well, yes, I, uh, I do have the Mark of Power. But I, uh, I do not actually have any power or throne or anything. I…am just Arlon.”

  Mogg’s elderly advisor wagged his wrinkled hand over at the other Dunamai. “Tell us, Arlon of the Kla’aven Soteria…are these not kings over their own Kla’aven?”

  Arlon froze. Oh, no. What was his name again? Magmus? No. Magllar…no. No. Mag…Mag…mar. Yes, it was Maggmar. So, how am I going to answer this one?

  Arlon tried to clear his nervous throat. “Uh, well, see, Maggmar,” his voice broke. “Uh, none of us are actually kings. Or queens.” He squirmed in his frustration. “But, then again, Mae’Lee, the girl with the dark, curly hair, right over there…she actually is a Princess. So, she could be the Queen, but that’s kind of complicated. But that’s in Avdira, which is another kingdom or Kla’aven. So, to answer your question, uh, no. None of us here are kings. Or queens. In our Kla’avens or kingdoms or whatever. Sir.”

  Paymer rolled his eyes and pressed up against him. “Whoa,” he whispered, obviously fighting back a serious chuckle. “What happened to that smooth-talking Soterian we met earlier today? To be honest, pal…that was
pretty…terrible. Oh, look…here comes the good stuff.”

  “Thanks, Paymer.”

  “Anytime. An-y-time, pal.” The lighthearted redhead pulled away and speared a slab of hot meat off the tray being paraded in front of him. “But please, uh, please, Arlon…continue to ramble like a fool and embarrass all of us way down here.” He pointed. “Hey look. You’re bringing a little color to Hort’s pale cheeks. The port-man looks good in pink.”

  Well, then…maybe it’s time for me to use my mouth for something more productive than speaking.

  Arlon followed Paymer’s lead and snagged a sizable Altryx steak using his metal spike. He looked over at Mogg (while trying not to look like he was looking over at Mogg). The Therion Dunamai tore into the meat on his plate with all the skill of an experienced surgeon matched with all the appetite of a ravenous beast.

  How does he do that? Arlon examined the tip of the spike. How am I supposed to do that?

  It was slow going at first, but he did his best to imitate Mogg’s deceptively-simple technique. His only comfort was in the fact that Paymer and the others seemed to be struggling just as much as he was. Arlon peeled off a chunk of steaming meat and managed to get the tasty morsel into his mouth.

  Wow…Mogg was right. This is good. He beamed with his tiny success. What I wouldn’t give to have some of those golden forks and knives we took from that city of ruins.

  Wait a minute.

  The city of ruins.

  The mysterious, empty city of ruins.

  Maybe they know. Maybe he knows.

  “Your Excellency,” Arlon interrupted when the moment felt right. “A few days ago, when we were first chased by your warriors…we found a city. A very, very old city. With broken down walls. It was deserted. Empty.”

  Mogg finished chewing a large mouthful of meat and swallowed. He narrowed his eyes as a tiny trickle of bloody juice dribbled down to his chin.

  Arlon continued. “And…uh, your people wouldn’t follow us into the abandoned city of ruins. They stayed back. I just want to know—”

  “Tar’tain,” Maggmar declared abruptly in a grave tone (grave seemed to be his one and only tone).