The Rider's Truth.

The Mountain Calls.

Unedited.

           

Chapter 38: The Mountain Calls.

The valley was silent.

I stood at the edge of camp, looking up at the jagged peaks of Naughton Mountain with my arms curled gently around me. The valley looked so different to how I remembered it. Still, hopelessly steep stone rose on either side of the vast forest that sat in its shadow. The sky was a mottled purple in the distance, dark clouds clustering together in the bruised sky, light barely managing to peek above the cut-throat stone.

There was a clear line in the forest. Miles and miles of ancient trees and scattered homes of people who like Caoimhe, had a desire to hide from the world. They had no idea what happened in the mountain. The dragons could sense how old the forest was – older than the formation of Valaxia and it was teeming with creatures as shadowed as what twisted around my hands.

I had been lucky to run into the Sentinel instead.

Beyond the expanse of old trees, there was only wretched nothing. The trees died, leaving behind thick stumps of rotting wood. The grass had dried and died, the flowers wilted and turned to nothing from years of rot. Instead of rich soil, the earth cut into sharp stone and pushed away the roots that once bound it.

I had cut open the soles of my feet on that stone.

I hadn't paid it attention before. I had been in a haze of panic and unrelenting fear. It had felt like the mountain was laughing at my pitiful attempts to run away.

A titter of laugher broke out behind me. There was a glamour over the camp, the smoke and sound from the camps hidden from the mountain and the dragons kept low to the trees as they arrived. There was no fear about Nethore being sensed. He arrived in a gust of wind, seeping into the night around him. He crowded around me, placing himself in the path of the cold evening wind.

There was no sound from the mountain, but as I looked at it, I could hear the distant echo from my memories. The sound of Hale's screaming as I sat, curled tight in my cell. They always laughed when we screamed but somehow, hearing him scream was worse than my own pain. The sound of my own- numbing my ear drums, filtering away into choking sobs until I heard nothing but my broken sobs when they left me to pain and infection. But we always got better – they made sure we did - they couldn't let us just die like that.

Nethore dropped his snout to the crown of my head, keeping the weight of his head off my neck, but just enough pressure to know that he was comforting me. His version of squeezing my hand.  When I was done looking at the mountain, soaking in its feel, I turned back to the camp. He moved with me, slitted eyes darting over the soldiers chatting and laughing. This was a serious mission, but just another one to them.

Commander Ren presided over this camp – a Dreliv Rider who was often called in to look over newly graduated Riders.  He was a short, squat man with permanently beet-red cheeks and a short fuse. There were camps like this littered along this line of trees, stretching out over miles and filled with soldiers prepared to lay siege to the mountain.

His dragon was a beast. Streamlined scales with thick shoulders and hard, emerald scales. Yellow eyes watched us sagely, his muzzle carved into a permanent snarl from a scar that gave him a small cat-lip. Another knotted scar moved from his shoulder, down his leg and under his stomach.

"He stood on the edge of death." Nethore watched the dragon for a moment.  "A wound like that would tear apart any dragon. He is strong. He kept going."

The Commander's dragon was missing three joints on his front left paw – including the one that curved a thumb. It made his lumber awkward but there was a meanness to him that instantly put up Nethore's guard.