Chapter Thirty-Seven – Dragon Rider

When Tara returned in a surge of blue light, the confusion hadn’t had a chance to fade from the faces of the necromancer’s former captives. The same afternoon sun was shining from a warm blue sky, and the scattered pines stirred in a light breeze. Behind them, the entrance to Wanderer’s Bane was permanently sealed with collapsed rock.

“What just happened?” asked Millard.

“She does that from time to time,” Wenrik told the old man casually. “I believe it must be a ‘hero’ thing.”

“That’s right,” said Tara deftly. The best way to get out of an unavoidable, awkward situation was to embrace it. “I bet you all feel refreshed now, right? All injuries healed? That’s how these—um—blinks are supposed to work.”

“She’s right,” said Kell, testing his foot in amazement. “My ankle isn’t hurting!”

“Are you some kind of sorcerer?” asked a woman with interest. “You look like a Borzerk. I didn’t think they were skilled with magic.”

“It’s not magic exactly,” said Tara, trying to think how to explain. “It’s like…a new beginning. You guys saw the words and stuff about leveling up and quest objectives? That’s something I see because of who I am. It’s kind of awkward sometimes, but that’s part of being a…” She stuck at actually saying the word hero. “It’s something I’ve been going through recently, along with the…um…blinking in and out. It’s really not important. It can be useful.”

“Useful?” said Millard. “It’s incredible.” He turned to Wenrik, Horon, and Elita. “Have you ever seen anything like it? Signs like these, they’re incredible. I could almost believe—”

“That she is the Last Hero of Allerion?” grinned Wenrik. “She certainly fits the prophecy, doesn’t she? I could easily believe, from everything I’ve seen, that she ‘walks in two worlds, yet in one.’”

As if on cue, Kell unslung his hurdy-gurdy and began to play, his long knobby fingers dancing over the keys.

The Prophecy of the Last Hero of Allerion

Who will break the mountains’ teeth

And climb the dark hall to the stars?

Who bends the spear of ancient foes

And laughs at threat and sound of war?

Who comes? The one who has not been—

No mortal eye has ever seen—

The one who living, was not born

The one who, made, was never formed—

The Hero of Allerion!

When three eyes haunt the starlit sky

Then comes the one who cannot die

Who walks in two worlds, yet in one

Whose life is old, yet just begun.

The Hero of Allerion!

Last Hero of Allerion!

To save us from oblivion.

Tara had never seen the fey so deliriously happy. Kell set the prophecy’s rhyme to a tripping little tune, his voice playful and clear.

His small audience was smiling but intent, and Tara couldn’t help wishing she could disappear into the ground. It was impossible not to notice the glances that turned to her at each new point in the song, measuring her against the Last Hero described in the ancient prophecy.

But as uncomfortable as she was, Tara couldn’t blame them. She felt the tingle of renewed energy, and it was a wonderful feeling, as if she had just woken up after a restful night. That returning from the Shieldmistress’s Vale could have this kind of effect certainly seemed like a miracle.

She still felt the ache from her exercised muscles, but it was no longer a painful feeling, and she almost appreciated the increased stress that spoke to her growing physical strength. Although she had put the points she earned from all they had faced in Wanderer’s Bane into dexterity, there was no doubt in her mind that she felt stronger now than she ever had. Her previous lifestyle had been pretty much confined to either her office or apartment, and the constant exercise in Allerion felt like a huge plus.

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“But what does it mean to ‘break the mountain’s teeth?’” asked one person uneasily.

“Is it true that you can’t die?” pressed another.

Tara thought back to how it had taken her three tries to defeat Ikor the Skorge. “I certainly hope I don’t,” she said weakly, not wanting to explain the regeneration process. “I don’t want to die anytime soon.”

“But what—”

“Enough,” said Horon, stepping to Tara’s side. The gruff Fenman commanded the attention of everyone present. “Whether Tara MacQueen is the Last Hero or not, we should begin our journey to Regan before the sun sets. Nowhere is safe after of dark, not while there are night riders and grimps about.”

The young woman who had seemed the weakest of all the prisoners was now standing on her own two feet, looking at Tara with clear eyes.

“It must be sad to know you are the last,” she said in a softly muted voice.

Tara didn’t know why, but those words chilled her. She thought of the shutdown that was planned for Swords of Allerion. Hadn’t the CEO said six months? How long had she already been here?

She wasn’t sure. It felt as if weeks had passed with all that had happened, but it had surely only been a few days. There was still time before the shutdown. If Tara was the Last Hero everyone kept talking about, she was supposed to save Allerion from oblivion, which she guessed referred to the MMO’s service going offline. But she had no idea how to stop that from happening, certainly not from inside the game itself.

The companions picked their way carefully down the mountainside. The way was steep and jagged, and their progress was slow. The sun was already setting by the time they were on level ground.

Elita served everyone from their few provisions. Tara knew that this was probably all the food they had, but the gnome didn’t say anything. Elita spoke a quiet blessing over the food as she passed meat and water between them all.

“Someone will need to hunt tonight,” said Wenrik, and from his expression Tara could see that the thought pleased him.

“I’ll go with you,” she said. “You can help me practice with my bow.”

The Borzerk warrior gave a short laugh. “I’ll never forget the pitiful job you did in that necromancer’s throne room,” he sad. “I’ve seen children with a surer aim than you. But, I admit, you do impress me with how you handle knives. Why are you so interested in learning the bow when you could become a fair swordswoman?”

Tara felt the heat spread up her cheeks. Acalon flashed instantly into her mind at Wenrik’s question. She had always thought bows were the coolest medieval weapons because of the independent-minded dragon rider. After meeting him, that preference felt slightly foolish. Acalon had distrusted her from the start.

The companions built a fire in open space. As soon as the others were settled with Horon standing watch, Wenrik motioned for Tara to follow him.

“If you’re serious,” he said, “come with me. Perhaps we can catch a rabbit or two for our next meal.”

Tara nodded quickly. “You can shoot a rabbit with a bow and arrow?”

“As long as you’re quick and know what you’re doing,” said the Borzerk warrior. “I doubt we’ll find any deer in these sparse hills. There’s barely anything to live on.”

Tara was about to agree when a sudden, fierce wind whipped the trees around them like the beginnings of a terrible storm. Someone exclaimed in terror and Elita tried to smother their fire with the cloak Tara had given her, but it was too late. The flying sparks caught on the nearest tree, climbing the dry bark and spreading up the branches in a blaze.

Thankfully, the gust of wind was brief and the fire did not spread farther. But in the red light from the crackling flames, they all saw the enormous, dark head of a dragon looming towards them.

“Maker’s mercy!” squeaked Elita, while several people fell over themselves trying to put distance between themselves and the giant creature.

Tara gaped up at Fenryx’s narrow snout extended towards them. She knew the dragon was friendly unless provoked, but she was as startled as anyone. Once again she was impressed by how massive the creature was.

Her eyes snapped down when a figure emerged from the darkness beyond the fire. Acalon was instantly recognizable, striding towards them before stopping at a politic distance. Tara would recognize his armor set anywhere, the beaten leather and bow slung over lean shoulders. Acalon wore his face covering as usual, his black eyes glittering over the cloth and under his narrow cap.

“I bring you greetings from the Grim Syr,” said the dragon rider.

Instantly, Wenrik spat into the scattered ashes of their fire. Tara was surprised at the Borzerk’s provocative manner, although his face was unreadable, almost indifferent.

“What does the Prime Dragon want with the likes of rabble like us?” asked Wenrik, teeth glinting.

Acalon took a moment to reply. Tara noticed that his eyes went briefly to her before returning to the Borzerk.

“My business is with Tara MacQueen and no one else,” said the dragon rider. Tara’s name was awkward on his tongue, as if the foreign syllables were somehow difficult for him. Remembering how they had parted ways, Tara could imagine there might be some awkwardness behind his clumsy formality. “I will speak with her, if she will permit it. Alone.”

“No.” This time, there was no mistaking the irritation in Wenrik’s tilted head and pursed mouth. “If you wish to speak with her, do it here and now, dragon rider. We do not keep secrets from each other as you Skor do.”

“It’s alright, Wenrik,” Tara said quickly, stepping forward. “Acalon is a friend.”

“You know him?” The Borzerk seemed more disgusted than before. “How is it possible that you know one of the flight folk?”

Tara didn’t bother explaining. She stepped forward, facing Acalon.

“We were about to hunt for provisions before you arrived,” she said. “These people were rescued form Wanderer’s Bane where they were being held captive by a necromancer. We intend to return them to Regan, but it is a long journey from here to the harbor. Perhaps you can help.”

Acalon’s hard glance flickered with what might have been interest. Tara noticed his head turn slightly towards the people huddled fearfully together.

“I have heard fearful things of Wanderer’s Bane,” he said. “I did not know if they were true.”

“And far be it from a dragon rider to investigate,” added Wenrik. “Your place in the skies, far above us!”

“I bring you no insult, Borzerk,” said Acalon. “Yet since I have arrived, you haven’t ceased to chastise me. May I ask what cause I have given to make you despise me?”

“Don’t play innocent,” returned Wenrik shortly. “You know the trouble between our peoples. There is nothing we have to say to each other. That is all.”

“And yet you won’t stop talking,” said the dragon rider more softly than before, his slight hiss distinct. He turned to Tara. “I have provisions with me that can be shared between you, and the distance from here to Regan is of no great importance to a dragon. I believe Fenryx will allow strangers on his back.”

Wenrik couldn’t help himself. “You aren’t serious!”

“Enough, Wenrik,” said Horon firmly. The Fenman considered Acalon with gimlet eyes. “If you are serious, Skor, then we accept your offer. I know it will be a perilous journey to Regan on foot.”

Acalon inclined his head. He motioned for Tara to follow him.

Tara hesitated. As much as she trusted Acalon, she was surprised by his appearance. As soon as they were a distance apart from the others, far enough to not be overheard, she didn’t hold back.

“Why are you looking for me?”

Acalon seemed strangely withdrawn, more so than usual. Tara noticed that he was careful to keep several feet of space between them, almost as if she were dangerous.

“Is it true?” he asked. “You are the Last Hero of Allerion?”

Tara’s chest tightened. “Where did you hear that?”

“The Prime Dragon knows of you,” said Acalon simply. “She wishes to speak with you in person. I have been sent to deliver you to her.”