available was stuck in the head of the dragon. He tried to yank out the deeply embedded hilt, but the skull of the creature did not yield the blade. “Thing’s stuck in deep,” he grunted and put his back into the effort. Blood and other gore stuck to the hilt of the blade and made it difficult to grip and even with his best effort he failed to pull it free.
“Maybe it’s meant to be there,” said Jon and handed over a small dagger. “This is a Tanelornian knife,” he said, “my father made it himself. Why don’t you keep it for a while?”
Sorus looked at the blade which seemed sturdy and plain with only a floral symbol at the end, the same symbol that adorned Jon’s armor.
“What is that flower?” he asked and pointed to the decoration.
“Mistletoe,” said Jon. “It’s the holy flower of the gray druids and the symbol of Tanelorn. They say it stands for neutrality.”
“I’ve never heard of that plant,” said Sorus as he began to work on the horns of the dragon. “This isn’t a really big one is it?”
Jon looked at the dragon, walked around it, and finally shook his head, “Not really, but big enough. It’s no baby.”
“It knew your name,” said Sorus as he finished the first horn and started on the second.
“You noticed that.”
“I did.”
“I noticed it as well.”
“What do make of it?” said Sorus with a final hack through the last of the thick horn, and the young knight pulled it out.
“I’m not sure,” said Jon. “It means someone knows I’m here which surprises me. This dragon must work for that someone but I don’t think it is going to tell us.”
“No,” laughed Sorus and put the horns in his pack. The exercise warmed him considerably although he still shivered in the damp clothes. “It’s a long walk up those stairs and Sir Germanius isn’t exactly a featherweight,” he said dubiously as he eyed the fallen knight.
“You’re right,” said Jon. “Help me take off his armor and that should lighten the load enough. We don’t have anything to make a bier out of so I’ll throw him over my shoulder. He’s an old man and might not be all that heavy.”
A sudden strange sniff or grunt sound came from somewhere on the far side of the cavern and Jon looked at Sorus. “It’s time to go.” He bent down and picked up the body of Sir Germanius, threw it over his shoulder, armor and all, and began to walk quickly towards the entrance door. Sorus followed, although he looked back several times to the rear of the cavern for the source of the strange sound but never spotted anything.
Soon they began the long trip up the stairs as Jon carried Germanius, and to Sorus, suddenly incredibly tired and his legs sore, it felt like every step was a mountain to climb. The journey seemed endless to the lad and his breath came in labored gasps long before they reached the half-way point. “I… gasp… don’t think I can make it
…,” he said to Jon and leaned up against the wall, but one look at the gray knight, who carried dead Germanius over his shoulder, his own face red with exertion, told him not to say it again. “I’m sorry, I’ll make it. Can I take him?”
Jon simply shook his head and began to put one foot in front of the other as they moved more slowly with each step. They took several rests on the journey and it seemed to Sorus that the trip back was at least twice as far as the trip down. After who knows how many hours, they suddenly saw a dim light from up ahead and soon enough found themselves back in the cave where they first ambushed the dragon child and his goblin cohorts. Jon let out a huge groan, dropped Germanius to the ground with a thump, fell to his knees, and then to his hands. Sorus leaned up against the wall where the funny little key still stuck out of the notch. Almost without thinking he reached up, twisted it, took it, and put it in his pocket.
“We could sleep here,” said Sorus and put his head back on the wall and closed his eyes as a sudden tremble indicated the passageway was closed again. “It’s probably safe.”
“The horses,” said Jon slowly as he climbed back to his feet. “Well get to them, ride down, and then camp at the base of the mountain where we built the cairn for Mikus.”
The mention of the mayor’s son was like a splash of cold water on Sorus’s face as he remembered the death of the day before. “It was only yesterday,” he said with a shake of his head, and his mouth hung open in wonderment. “I… it’s hard to believe all this happened in a day.”
Jon nodded and bent down to pick up the old knight but failed in his first attempt to hoist him. “Here,” said Sorus, moving over, “you take him under the arms and I’ll get him by the legs, it’s not that far down the hill to the horses and then it’ll be easy.”
Jon nodded and the two picked up their burden and began to walk slowly down to the horses.
Chapter 10
A fleet of three flat-bottomed ships made their way along the coastline while Usharra Dushallama stood on the deck of the largest and watched the land slowly slide past. The terrible weather that delayed them as the rounded the tip of the Dorian peninsula no longer forced them into inlets, although the cool breeze from the south caused the blue scaled dragon child to shiver and hug his thin hide cloak close about his body.
“Would you like another cloak?” said the red scaled officer as he moved up next to Usharra. The man wore a Dorian style heavy fur cloak wrapped around his sturdy frame.
Usharra shook his head and shivered, “I do not wish to wear any clothes of the Dorians,” he said with a shrug. “There are those who accuse me of dereliction of loyalty to Darag’dal,” he went on and stamped his feet on the ground. “What is the status of the other ships?”
“The Green Dragon is barely seaworthy,” replied the officer with a shake of his head and his tail moved with a similar motion. “The Gray Crocodile is in somewhat better condition but our warriors must work the pumps every hour of the day. Our own ship suffered seriously during that last storm and it slows our progress greatly. The hull cannot take more stress and another storm might well sink us. I reiterate my request to stop at a port and effect repairs. Soon we will pass Delcius, the most western Dorian city. Once we pass the human realm there are only the orc nations of Knog’dal and Adas Jdar neither of which will offer us any ports. If we do not stop here then the entire mission might well end at the bottom of the Southern Sea. Our ships are designed for coastal work not this ocean going travel.”
“I hear your request,” said Usharra and looked at the volcano that rose up out of the morning mist. “We cannot risk word of our mission reaching the freeriders and unless we risk immediate sinking, I cannot accede to requests. I am sorry, my friend.”
The red scaled naval officer stood silently for a moment as the tall volcano came more clearly into his vision, pulled a piece of sealskin parchment from a pouch at his belt, and studied it for a moment. “I think that’s Black Mount,” he said, “although there are so many of them along this coastline I’m not completely certain. We passed the Five Volcanoes yesterday.”
“You’ve never been to these seas before?” said Usharra and looked over the shoulder of the red scaled naval officer and at the chart.
He shook his head no and then handed the chart over to Usharra. “This chart was purchased from Dorian tradesmen but it is several years old at least and probably not completely accurate. If you don’t mind me saying, High Priest…,” he said as his tail once again moved back and forth in an agitated fashion and the red scales around his mouth suddenly turned a slighter deeper shade.
“Go on, captain,” replied Usharra.
“We do not belong in these lands; our people cannot stand the cold, our soldiers cannot march over open expanses, we are suited for the fens and swamps where the shoe wearers do not fare well. If the High Council persists in these expansionary exercises it bodes ill for Darag’dal,” said the captain looking directly at Usharra.
“I am a member of the High Council,” said Usharra his own green scales shaded slightly darker but his tail moved only slightly.
