Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [128]
“Exactly,” said Maxon. “You’re learning Wulder’s principles? Where did you get the Tomes?”
“From Librettowit.”
“I should like to have a look at it.”
“Somehow I thought your people had copies.”
The kimen’s wild hair flew about his head as he shook it. “We have discovered that the principles are in some of our ancient songs. We sang the lyrics without knowing they came from Wulder’s Tomes.”
“Does that mean that many generations ago, your people knew of Wulder?”
“We think it does, and our elders are chagrined that we let the knowledge of the Most High Wulder Aldor slip from our memory.”
“The disassociation must have taken many, many years.”
Again the small man’s head shook, and to Bealomondore, it looked like drops of light splattered the air like water from a wet dog. “The elders say it would take only two generations. If parents don’t teach their children, and they become grandparents and don’t teach their grandchildren, the knowledge is lost. Truth is relegated to legend. Legend becomes myth. Myth becomes fairy tale.”
Bealomondore marveled over the experience he’d had while on watch. What a fragile thread bound them to the reality of a spiritual realm. He connected and grew stronger by acknowledging Wulder. A race lost the bond through lack of testimony.
At the camp, Bealomondore found the men he’d been training ready to go. They marched away from the peace of their tents and toward the unknown with their artist leader at the front.
The Grawl slipped into the cover of trees. A dragon flew toward him, coming from the one-towered castle, and headed toward the southeast corner of the valley. The crescent moon shed little light with its mocking smile, but relying on his keen eyesight, The Grawl felt certain he had seen only one rider. He remained where he was for the time being. He did not want to be spotted.
Thirty minutes later, a hundred or so men marched over the hill, heading the same direction. Patience and curiosity warred within The Grawl’s mind. He scanned the starry sky, noting clouds gathering over the mountains to the west. Better yet, he saw no dragons in the air to see him and sound an alarm.
Through his nightly exploration of the potential battlefield, he’d become very familiar with the topography of the valley. He guessed the destination of dragon and soldiers. With no more hesitation, he hurried through the wooded area and came to a ravine with a trickle of a stream at the bottom. He lowered himself over the edge and loped toward the gap.
The dragon and rider had reached the overlook before him, but the soldiers wouldn’t appear for more than an hour. He moved faster and knew a shorter route. Being careful to keep out of sight, The Grawl crept to the opposite side of the gap. From there he watched the man called Paladin as he watched the canyon floor below.
The Grawl smelled the men before he heard them. Their halfhearted effort to steal into the valley made him laugh. Finally, fewer than forty men came into sight, a ragtag group of sea dogs. Tattered uniforms proclaimed them sailors.
Fighting men, they were not. Unused to walking great distances, they limped as they trudged through the gap. They looked malnourished, worn to the point of collapse, and unfocused. The Grawl’s nose twitched. They smelled unclean. Pitiful. An enemy force of four could have wiped them all out.
The scene no longer interested him. He turned his back and renewed his quest—finding the wizard.
51
Trouble
Hollee watched Wizard Fenworth carefully. He looked like he merely stood in the sunshine, soaking up the warm rays, but he’d been odd the last several days. After all the days underground, now he craved the open air. Well, she did too. And maybe his constant twitching and muttering would stop. She found it hard to live with a nervous wizard.
Fenworth had spent his days supervising the building of tunnels, not that the tumanhofers appreciated his suggestions. He also trained medium-sized dragons