The Dragon Rock

The Dragon Rock

Aleksandar Budjanovac

Copyright© 2015 Nebojsa Budjanovac

Cover Design by Andjela Budjanovac

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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Contents

Prologue: The Dweller

Chapter 1. One Dream Shattered

Chapter 2. One Peace Lost

Chapter 3. Haar - ol - garot

Chapter 4. The Enlightened

Chapter 5. The vision

Chapter 6. Keol

Chapter 7. The mission

Chapter 8. The People of the heights

Chapter 9. The premonition of storm

Chapter 10. Elf king

Chapter 11. The Army without hope

Chapter 12. The Forest Castle

Chapter 13. The battle

Chapter 14. The decision

Chapter 15. Arios

Epilogue

About Author

Prologue: The Dweller

Mornings were always cool, up there on the high slopes of the Blue Mountains - scattered white clouds, the wind gliding toward distant plains, and tall pine trees, dark green, straight and silent. The spirit of self-sufficient solitude ruled inviolably over these green hillsides. It was rarely that the foot of man, or any other creature which belongs to the arrogant races victoriously treading through the world, left its print on the mountain meadows. This was the land of Nature’s spirits, whose quiet existence could not stand any disturbance of the Unity. Only those who would bow to their laws could live up here. It was a rather lonely country.

On the little plateau at the bottom of the Eagle’s Peak, fitted into surrounding rocks, there was a cottage. Made of thick pine trunks, with moss-covered roof, it was almost invisible from afar. On the back side, the cottage was supplemented with a small pen. Nothing revealed any presence of living beings anywhere near. In this time of the morning, the cottage’s inhabitant was usually visiting one of the steep pastures which extended on the slopes above his dwelling place. Gentle breeze was inaudibly passing by the cottage, carrying the fresh scent of the forest, calm beeches and ancient pines.

A man was sitting on the edge of the rocky cliff and observing the depth beneath, the surrounding mountain ranges, which, in the clean morning air, seemed so close, and magnificent shapes of the clouds in the sky ocean.

Judging by appearance, there was no difference between him and other few shepherds who spent summers with their flocks on the hillsides of the Blue Mountains - leather clothes, long black hair, shaven and sun-burned face, in places furrowed with shallow wrinkles.

Dark eyes expressed nothing of what was happening in his mind.

Behind him, five goats jumped around the meadow in carefree manner, browsing low vegetation.

The shepherd’s thoughts were far away, with the tiny bright speckles circling in heights above a distant range called the Dragon Rock; it towered above other mountain ranges, mastering the northern horizon.

Flying high, ruling the skies unchallenged, hiding unimagined knowledge in their mysterious minds - the inhabitants of the Dragon Rock always fascinated him. It was quite understandable. From time immemorial, the dragons were the greatest mystery of the High Countries, distant and intimidating. Old legends told that the descent of the dragon in the lands of men is an evil omen, bringing unpredictable changes. There was no one alive who knew if there was some truth in the old tales - for the centuries, the dragons lived far, separated, and mysterious. The man on the cliff liked them.

He hadn’t had any special name for himself. The name Arios the Black, which he carried in the days of his youth, had been given to him after entering the order of Consecrated, and it meant nothing to him any more; he had almost forgotten it. Here, on the mountain, there was nobody who could call him by any name. Besides, he learned here that names meant nothing if there are no people here who would give them meaning. He was what he was, trying to merge his personality with the nature in which he lived, and believing himself content with that. Naming things meant separation from the Unity. And separation meant loneliness. Besides, in the world of humans, names too often concealed the truth.

As the years passed, he got used to the solitude, and he was not too interested in what was happening on the distant plains. Still, a vision of the old age in complete solitude was growing strong in his deepest nightmares. As time passed by, the feeling was ever harder to ignore. His sub-consciousness was not as clean as he liked to think. Often it seemed to him that his spiritual harmony was only resignation and giving up of life.

He was afraid of the world, and he had a good reason for that (at least he thought so), and at the same time, he wanted to return among the people. But he had not enough courage to solve this problem.

That morning, there was a sense of something unusual in the nature. It was not anything a man could point his finger at and say This isn’t right. The sun was shimmering in the tiny drops of dew on the grass, the light breeze was flowing over the uneven surface of the rocks, and the mountain was silent. Still, in his inner eye Arios saw that something unusual, something hideous has happened. Maybe the monotonous life developed his senses to the point in which they received messages unreadable to the mind, or it was the whisper of the mountain spirits, passing in moment from one place to another and talking to those who knew how to listen. Anyway, the lonely shepherd never underestimated these messages coming from nowhere, so he decided to lead his little herd back home and wait there for anything this day could bring.

Let’s go, said he to the goats, and these obediently started to follow him, breaking their play. Then he turned to the dragons in the distance.

’Till tomorrow, said he quietly.

Chapter 1. One Dream Shattered

For somebody who was used to court life, surrounded with all the attention and honours, the mountain was a very dangerous place.

Orin ar den Raamternan, son of Argen Raamternan, king of the Plain Countries, and the only heir to his father’s throne, realized this a bit too late. His whole escort was scattered last night in a fierce attack of an enormous pack of the Longhaired wolves, most dangerous in the early spring when, savage with hunger, they attack everything that moves. Orin was a brave fighter, but a pack of wolves would be too much even for a much better warrior than him. Ten surrounded knights with their long swords succeeded to keep the ferocious animals at bay for some time, but there were many wolves, and their hunger was a force that overwhelmed any attempts of resistance. Men fell one by one; the powerful jaws ended their cries. Orin wielded his sword savagely, but fear and excitement weakened his efforts - some strikes found their mark, but it was not enough. Soon, the last warrior was dead, because his men guarded him above their own lives. It was knight’s honour to die for his lord. There were only a few servants and squires remained, who were hiding behind the swords of their masters. Their only weapons were short daggers and rods - they were doomed, too. Nevertheless, they tried to protect their prince with their bodies. Finally, ragged and exhausted, Orin escaped the jaws and found shelter high in the tree-top of an old pine tree. The servants were down, in the melee, and their resistance was almost over.

The prince still couldn’t feel the pain in his wounds, undoubtedly because of the shock.

At last, full of scratches and exhausted, he was lucky enough to get away from the hungry jaws and to find a shelter on the high branches of an old pine tree. Because of the shock, he had not yet started to feel pain in his numerous wounds. His clothes were stained with his blood, and blood of his men. The strong stench urged him to vomit, but somehow he was able to control the urge. He watched in terror as the last of his guards disappeared, protecting the retreat of his prince. He felt no sorrow for them - Orin was always taught that it is soldier’s sacred task to give life for his master; what shocked him was the brutality of killing, the agony of the bodies that quivered under the black-furred mass of the huge beasts. It was not death in battle, it was a slaughter. The ground was soaked with blood, but the corpses were dragged into the wood to the last.

Stocked between the branches, he spent the night in some kind of half-sleep, torn by the nightmarish dreams about wolves, death, and comfort of his quarters in the Castle-on-the-River, where he daydreamed of heroic deeds and quests worthy of greatest heroes of the past. The wounds started to burn, and there was numbness in his limbs, caused by the cold wind and uncomfortable position.

How all of it seemed simple there, back at home! Without much thinking of the obstacles, many dangers on the road and enemies, he shall fearlessly reach the end of his quest, find the lost Ring of the Kings, and spread his rule through all known lands! It will be a real heroic quest, quite different from those brawls in the court halls, duels from which he always came out a victor, because there was nobody who dared to confront him seriously, him, the heir apparent. He will show his power to the whole world, and it will not be the usual power gained by inheritance, but something completely different, something more real.

The reality was rarely corresponding to the daydreams, even the royal ones.

Leather clothes and the cloak were not adequate protection from the icy wind, even in the thick treetop. It was sheer luck that saved him from falling down out of that uncomfortable position. When the morning came, he was frostbitten, stiff and utterly discouraged. The bleeding stopped; by some miracle, his wounds were all skin-deep - not one fang had buried deep in his flesh. Still, it was not much of a comfort for the defeated prince. This was the very beginning of his quest, but now it seemed more like the end.

With the rising of the sun, the beasts left for their hidden lairs. The Longhaired wolves liked the moon and its ghostly radiance much more.

Orin moved his leg. It was completely numb. He succeeded to free himself from his shelter, but missed the branch he tried to reach. With the clatter of broken branches, he trashed on the wet, hard ground. Trying to rise, he felt the blood starting to circulate slowly through his legs.

Nothing broken, he thought with relief. Scratches and bites burned mercilessly all over his body. With an effort, he crawled to the sword that was lying on the ground, where he threw it to make climbing easier. He grabbed the sword’s hilt. The closeness of the weapon always calmed him. There was nothing on this world he trusted more than the cold steel. Martial arts were a religion for him. Sword in hand meant power over common people. And if a man is to survive, he has to have such power.

Orin believed that the power is the only thing that matters in this miserable life. His father, Argen Raamternan, had a royal power, but it was only illusory and now it was descending. The king was old, and numerous enemies plotted endlessly against him. One of these days they will succeed in their intention and show to everyone that even the king is only human, vulnerable and mortal. Orin wanted no such power. The power he dreamed of was complete, undeniable and endless.

Many wise men have spent their nights trying to find the answer on his question, and finally they came to him, admitting their failure. Nobody knew the secret of ultimate power. A rumour began in the kingdom, about the prince possessed, the prince gone mad...

...until one day, an old man in a long black cloak limped to the throne, coming from nowhere, nameless, looking small between the tall king’s guards. His face revealed advanced old age, and deeply set eyes shone with wicked glow, hiding unimagined darkness. He stopped, leaning against a long wooden staff which was changing in shades of green.

I know what you are looking for, prince, said he impudently, his dry voice somehow filling every corner of the vast hall, without showing honours to the heir apparent, and I know the answer to your question.

Why don’t you bow to the prince, as it is appropriate? asked Orin insolently. He was not used to disrespectful behaviour.

I bow only to the true power, answered the old man.

You say that you know its secret - what do you want in return?

Very little. You will find out when the time comes, said the old man, and then he began telling the story.

In ancient times, when the Blue Mountains were still young, mighty kingdoms existed in the Plain Countries. Hard and long wars for supremacy were waged, wars with many losers, but without the victor. Powerful sorcerers wove their demonic webs of spells; brave warlords led armies in bloody battles. And then, from the dark depths of time, emerged a sorcerer not known to anyone, and brought with him an item forged probably on the fires of hell, Ring of the Kings, the tool of ultimate power. It is not known whether the sorcerer intended to give it to someone, or maybe to keep it for himself; for, on the day he wanted to show it to the world from the highest tower in Sun City, an enormous dragon came from the sky, seized the Ring, and vanished with it in the heights. He who finds the ring shall rule the world. Nothing could stand against his will.

It was a dream come true for Orin ar den Raamternan.

How can I find the ring? asked Orin.

I don’t know where it is, said old man, but I do know who may have more knowledge than I do. Search for the Dragon Rock beyond the Blue Mountains and maybe you will find what you want.

If it was the ultimate power, asked the prince curiously, why did the sorcerer allow the dragon to snatch his ring?

I do not know answer to that question, prince, but I do know a few things concerning the nature of the Ring’s power. It rules the mind. He who wears it dominates over anything that has a soul, so much I can tell you.

Well, then this power isn’t ultimate! exclaimed Orin. There are many things without a soul in the world! Even with the ring, a man cannot rule over storms, fire, and earthquakes! And any animal can be a danger for the bearer of the ring. How is he different, then, from the other rulers, if he masters only the people? This power isn’t ultimate; it is a kind of power which most of the good kings wield!

You are wrong, prince, answered the old man coldly. All things in this world have a soul. The spirit defines existence of all things. Without spirit, nothing exists, nothing lives and nothing dies. Even the death doesn’t signify non-existence of the spirit, because for something to die, it must live before. After life, spirit goes to the spheres of death. When there’s no spirit, there is a void. And in the void, there is no death or life. Only in the void the Ring of the Kings has no power at all.

Who are you, old man, to have such knowledge?

It matters not who I am. The better question is what I want.

What do you want, then?

I am old, and I haven’t got enough strength for a long journey. You are young and strong. You can go in the search for a legend. The Ring was supposed to bring peace for the warring kingdoms. This land is on the edge of a new slaughter. You know that the king is old and weak, and you are not the only one who wants his throne. It is my wish that you find the Ring of the Kings and use it for the welfare of all the land. It is my only wish.

The old man turned then and left the hall without a goodbye, limping lightly, and the king’s guards didn’t bother him, but his words still echoed in the air, almost tangible in the silence. There were numerous questions left unsaid, but it was too late.

Of course, Orin was not able to resist the temptation. He gathered a large escort and left in the search for a legend, not aware of what he got into. Now they were all dead, and his chances to live through the following night were small. He stood up, bracing himself on the sword, and looked around. His whole body was shivering but the strength did not leave him completely.

All the equipment lay scattered on the ground. He grabbed the nearest bag and started to gather everything he could use. Once he gathered enough food, he took off the ground a longbow, which unfortunately hadn’t been of much help to its previous owner, and picked all the arrows he was able to find. Then he began to walk slowly forward, leaning on the long rod. He did not want to stay in this place