Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [134]
“And we haven’t seen any dragons guarding the passageways.”
“The Grawl?”
“Yes, I think The Grawl is here.” Bealomondore stood. “Go back and get ten to fifteen men. I’ll go on. Fenworth and Librettowit may need some help.”
“I think the wizard can take care of The Grawl.”
“You’re probably right.”
“But you’re going anyway?”
“Yes.”
Maxon took off. Bealomondore straightened his shoulders, gripped the Sword of Valor, and stepped around the dark red puddle on the floor. As he followed the tunnels down to the cavern, he inspected each meditation room.
He stopped just inside the opening to the chapel. Wizard Fenworth and his librarian were nowhere in sight, but The Grawl stood next to the display of the three statues. Bealomondore recognized the rapt expression on the big man’s face. Verrin Schope’s art often profoundly moved him. He’d spent time just gazing at a painting, marveling at all an artist’s brush could reveal.
He took a few steps into the large cavern. The wizard had provided lighting that enhanced the natural beauty of salt and crystals. During the day, special lights accented the carvings formed by the wizard’s hands. In the night, only the three statues were illuminated.
“I have a collection.” The Grawl’s comment startled Bealomondore. He hadn’t realized the creature had noticed him.
“Of art?”
“Yes, but more than just art. Things of beauty. Anything that strikes me as exquisite. Anything exceptional.”
“Verrin Schope’s work always astounds people.”
The Grawl looked over his shoulder, pinning the tumanhofer with a glare. “I will take these.”
Bealomondore blinked. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The Trio of Elements is necessary for the health of my friend and my country. I cannot allow you to take them.”
“Then I shall kill you.” The Grawl pulled a sword from its scabbard.
Bealomondore raised the Sword of Valor. It seemed suddenly heavier. He glanced down and saw that the hilt had enlarged and covered his hand, and the blade itself looked longer and thicker. He swished it in front of him. The balance seemed the same. The comfort of his grip felt the same. The sword had changed, but not the way he would use it. With just an ounce more confidence, Bealomondore came down the ramp that led to the expanse of stone floor.
The Grawl approached from the other direction.
The tumanhofer didn’t like the patronizing grin on the creature. He didn’t like that his head probably came no higher than the taller man’s thigh. He didn’t like fighting a superior force when he was tired from a night of skirmishes. His previous experience with The Grawl had ended in the river. He’d nearly died from a crushed skull and drowning. He steered his thoughts from that memory. He didn’t need to undermine his own confidence.
He stopped at the proper distance for two swordsmen to face off for a fight.
Nerves sent a tremor through his body. I will need more than my own power to defeat this foe. The sword will help. I will need more than that to even stay alive. Wulder. What does Wulder give in circumstances such as this? Enough bravery so that I won’t turn and run? Enough skill to match my opponent? Enough strength to deflect his blows? Enough stamina to finish the fight? I ask for enough, Wulder, and just a little bit more.
They crossed swords, and the battle began.
To Bealomondore’s surprise, his size actually gave him an advantage in this battle. The Grawl miscalculated the distance between them. Bealomondore ducked under many swipes. He moved with the agility learned from his kimen instructors. He used the moves the sturdier librarian had taught him. The Grawl fought in a straightforward manner, but Bealomondore twirled, somersaulted, flipped, and leaped into the air.
They both attacked with determination. Bealomondore realized The Grawl had not expected his expertise to be tested. Instead of dispatching Bealomondore after a moment’s match, the combat lasted. The Grawl’s anger increased. His moves sharpened. His eyes flamed. His jaw clenched.
Bealomondore prayed he would