“MistyTrail actually met him when she was on the Island of Darkness,” answered Garl. “At that time she had no idea who the man was, but he said one word to her. That word was Avalar.”
“Praise Kaltara,” cried the queen as tears ran down her cheeks. “I will send our armies to this Island of Darkness. I will not let my daughters risk so much. I want them with me here in Elvangar.”
“No,” advised Garl. “Your daughters can succeed where armies would fail. You must put your trust in Kaltara. I am positive that he has been watching over the princesses for a long time now. The best thing any of us can do is to pray for their safe return.”
Chapter 29
King of the Dragons
The eastern bank of the Meliban River was mostly forested while the western bank of the river began a great expanse of arid wasteland stretching to Lake Jabul, Vandegar, and beyond. At the great bulge of the north fork of the river, a lone tribesman sat quietly before a campfire. His campsite was in a wide clearing on the eastern shore near a ford used by most of the travelers in the area. A large sack of food rested by his side.
Gorgi sat on a log carving a figure out of a block of wood. Occasionally he looked up to watch the distant plume of dust on the western horizon. As the plume grew larger, the Extala tribesman tried to calculate the number of riders that must be approaching. He extracted several spare knives from the smaller pack that he was wearing. Putting down his carving, Gorgi rose and tried to visualize the coming encounter.
He walked back to where the line of trees at the edge of the clearing began. Selecting the place where he would flee into the forest, he shoved one of the knives into the far of a tree. Nodding thoughtfully, he measured off half the distance to the log he had been sitting on. He stooped down and dug a small trench in the soil. He buried a knife and moved a thin layer of soil over the top of it. He memorized the spot so that he would be able to quickly grab the knife if he had to flee in a hurry. Returning to the log, he placed the third knife behind the log and then walked around it and sat back down. He picked up his carving and continued to whittle.
When next he looked towards the west, he whistled to himself. The dust plume had become a multitude of smaller plumes. Gorgi estimated between one and two dozen riders were heading for the ford. He swallowed hard as he realized his vulnerability. Most of the groups in the past week had been no more than a handful of riders at a time, although one group had consisted of ten riders.
Gorgi rose and turned the spit over the fire, rotating the roasting clova. He took a stick and stirred the embers before returning to his log. He looked to the west again and was finally able to count the riders. He could count twenty riders. He could also recognize their colors, although he had been fairly sure they that they were Jiadin since he had seen the first dust plume. All of the riders over the past week had been Jiadin.
Gorgi picked up his carving and continued his work as he waited for the riders to arrive. He did not have long to wait. The Jiadin came streaming across the ford holding their swords high and shouting old war chants. Gorgi looked up as if he was barely interested in the new arrivals. The Jiadin encircled the Extala tribesmen. Only then did Gorgi put down his carving and stand up.
“Welcome fellow Fakarans,” Gorgi said loudly. “I am Gorgi. Would you join me for a meal? I have more clova than I know what to do with.”
“We are not Fakarans,” spat one of the riders. “We are Jiadin, and if we want your clova, it is ours for the taking. What are you going to do about it?”
“I would prefer to invite you to join me in eating,” retorted Gorgi. “You gain little by fighting with me when I am offering you everything anyway. Besides, if we eat as friends, I can save your lives.”
“What do you mean?” scowled another rider. “How can a tribesman save our lives? Are there others hiding in the trees?”
“I am alone,” Gorgi shook his head. “What I meant is that I can share knowledge about the dangerous path you are on. The way ahead is not safe. Will you help me eat the clova?”
“Any path is safe for the Jiadin,” boasted one of the riders. “We go where we want to.”
“Be quiet, Jaker,” scowled the leader as he stared suspiciously at Gorgi.
The leader’s eyes rose and scanned the forest for any signs of other tribesmen. He saw nothing to disturb him.
“Dismount,” the leader said loudly. “We are going to accept Gorgi’s invitation. Stay alert.”
The Jiadin dismounted and tied their horses to the trees. The leader approached Gorgi and extended his sword hand in promise of a truce. Gorgi readily grasped the leader’s hand.
“I am Niger,” stated the leader. “Although we have never met, I have heard of you, Gorgi. You are known as an excellent tracker and swordsman. The Extala should be proud to have you.”
“The Extala were always proud to have me among their fold,” smiled Gorgi, “but the tribes are not what they used to be. Today everyone is considered a Fakaran. There is no more rivalry.”
“Tell that to the tens of thousands of Jiadin who still roam the wilds,” retorted Niger.
“The Jiadin are Fakarans,” insisted Gorgi. “You are our brothers, and you will be accepted into the fold.”
“And live in cities like women and children?” balked Niger. “That will never come to pass. Real Fakarans are warriors, not farmers.”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Gorgi as he walked to the fire and rotated the clova. “I like a good fight as much as any man, but I also want the chance to have a wife and children. Besides, there is going to plenty of fighting to come soon enough.”
All of the Jiadin had gathered around the fire. They were all listening intently to the conversation.
“Fighting?” Jaker asked suspiciously. “What fighting? Are the tribes coming after the Jiadin again?”
“The tribes have been trying to round up the Jiadin,” confessed Gorgi, “but to welcome them as brothers, not to exterminate them. Thousands have already joined with us, but that is not what I was talking about.”
“What were you talking about?” asked Niger.
“The Dragon Prophecy,” Gorgi sighed. “Haven’t you heard about it?”
“There are dragons…” began one of the Jiadin.
“Shut up,” shouted Niger. “I am talking to Gorgi,” he said more calmly. “Why don’t you men begin eating? And make sure that you save some for me.”
The men started carving the clova, but there attention was still on the conversation.
“What is this prophecy that you talk about?” asked Niger.
“It was foretold that one day Fakara would be engulfed with dragons,” stated Gorgi. “The dragons would terrorize the riders of the plains and the hikers of the mountains. The dragons would multiply and continue to feast upon man and horse alike until the new king arrives.”
“King?” echoed Niger. “We don’t need no king.”
“Ah,” smiled Gorgi, “but we do because that is the only way that the dragons will stop eating us. You do not have to worry about bowing down to any king, though. That king just might be you.”
“Me?” laughed Niger. “Now that is a prophecy that I like. I would make a good king.”
“You might at that,” smiled Gorgi. “All you have to do is defeat the King of the Dragons in battle. Whoever does that will be King of Fakara.”
“One man against a dragon?” balked Niger. “What fool would attempt that?”
“That is why I am here,” retorted Gorgi. “I plan to fight the King of the Dragons.”
Niger stared at Gorgi with skepticism. He stepped back to take the measure of a warrior who would willingly pit himself against a dragon. He shook his head.
“You may be good, Gorgi,” stated Niger, “but no man is that good. You would be better off riding with us. You have shown that you have courage.”
“Someone must defeat the dragons,” replied Gorgi. “For when the dragons are gone, the real battle begins.”