Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [126]
Where was the wizard? The bits of information The Grawl had collected on the long journey to this valley didn’t help in his search. He had learned a lot of places where the wizard was not, but no definite clues as to where the old man hid.
This valley offered the most likely spot. The Grawl shifted, using the sharp edge of a boulder to scratch the itch between his shoulder blades. Several people had mentioned the possibility that the three statues had been taken to Prince Jayrus’s castle for protection. The wizard knew the secrets of the stones, and the new songs said that Paladin stood as defender at the powerful gate they formed.
So where were the statues? Where was their protector?
The castle?
The island?
The mine?
Clouds drifted over the sun. A chill wind whistled through cracks in the rocks. For one moment, the sound resembled hooting owls, hundreds of hooting owls. The Grawl frowned.
Easing out of his blind, he headed back to the camp where he’d imprisoned his not-so-willing helpers. The schoergats weren’t bound by any chains, but The Grawl had cunningly worked to elevate their fear of him. Every day they’d been in his company, he’d impressed them with his power, his cold wrath, and the swift death he administered with no show of emotion. The schoergats stayed where he told them to stay and jumped when he told them to jump.
His only problem with them had been when their superstition overwhelmed their terror of his fury. But even then, they didn’t run off. They knew he could track them.
They also believed that his presence would deter any attack by fiends. They stayed with him lest some bogeyman jump out of this land their ancestors had cleared of dragons. The fear of the unfamiliar worked well to keep them in line. The Grawl, the monster in their midst, could out-thunder any creature of the night, of the deep, of the dark, of the unseen.
They didn’t like the cold, so when he returned to the camp, he lit fires under the over-cropping shelves of stone. His technique in starting these fires further proved his awesome powers. He had matches. They didn’t know about matches. He held one in his hand and flicked a rough fingernail over the red tip. Very impressive magic.
As the day grew colder, windier, and wetter, The Grawl contemplated the things he knew that he doubted those in the valley knew.
King Yellat’s army had been split. The bigger part had hunkered down in Ragar and the forts that supposedly guarded the city. A smaller band had been cut off and forced to run in another direction. That group of a hundred or so men was headed for this valley.
A ship of Chirilian sailors had barely made it to shore. Damage inflicted by the superior Baardackian navy had crippled King Yellat’s finest ship in a showy but hardly practical fleet. Those thirty men also headed this way. Loyalty to the king did not drive these men. The desire to find sanctuary and hide brought them to the valley.
The Grawl had decided to take this refuge and all its occupants. He would be sure that King Odidoddex knew of his cunning rout of the last stronghold. There would be a reward. He’d kill the wizard. It wouldn’t hurt to add to his fame and his wealth at the same time.
The Grawl kills wizards.
The Grawl commands wild schoergats.
The Grawl wipes out fortified havens.
The Grawl is the victor of all enemies.
Yes, it all sounded good in The Grawl’s ear.
50
In the Night
Bealomondore sat under the starlit sky and marveled at the colors he could see. In the city, all the stars looked white. Occasionally a red, blue, or green planet could be picked out. Here, in the high mountain valley, the planets looked the same, though brighter, but the twinkling stars shone in hues of yellow, orange, red, and white. He’d never seen that in Greeston. Tonight the moon only showed a sliver of its pearly