The Legend of Spyro
Shadow Repentance
Chapter 11
Sunlight pried Cynder's aching eyes open. She brought a hand up to shield the painful gleam, and rolled over to face the other side of the cave. Still the light crept into her eyes. She grumbled in irritation.
She massaged a crick in her neck as she rose and yawned. The sun tingled on her tongue and palate; that caused her to sneeze. As her eyes finished their forced adjustment, she began to notice the absence of a certain other Dragon.
As if at her cue, he appeared at the mouth of the cave, a long shadow in front of him raced to the back wall. "You're up," he said; she detected a ring of surprise in his voice.
"So are you," she said coyly, "Been up long," and then added very quickly, "all night?"
He shook his head, "No. I woke up to some noises and thought it was the Specters. Turned out to be kids playing outside." He stepped inside the cave, "One of them told me to say 'hi' to 'Cymber'."
She paced toward him, her nose invading his natural space. His neck moved back at the shoulders a little, and she only closed the gap, her eyes boring holes into his. She watched her pupils move side to side, and could even see them dilate just a little. Finally she receded just a little, pausing to give one last cursory examination, and then relaxed.
"All right." She muttered.
Inwardly, he almost screamed.
"So when are we going to help the Arboktu?"
"When you're ready, Tyrragor will take us down to the forest ground."
"Can't we just fly down?"
"The canopy is too thick; we have to go through the caves to get under it."
"Then let's go." She started to walk out of the cave, but Spyro pressed his hand against her shoulder, gently pushing to discourage her step.
"We'll be at a big disadvantage down there. We won't be able to fly. Are you sure you want to go?"
"I can't let you go alone."
He looked at her for another moment, and let his hand fall away.
Whisked from one cave into another, the Dragons followed the Atlawan chief down a steep slope interrupted every few yards with a bar of wood to help flatten the earth. Each interval was accompanied by a drop of different height, and no matter how warily she tried to step, Cynder never quite expected it.
The ground began to level, and Cynder found herself following the wiggling torch in Tyrragor's hand almost sleepily. Even though there were three spearmen with them, the darkness, and an echoing drip in the distance, gave her the sensation of being small and alone.
The air became very damp and cool as they wondered the endless tunnel. Cynder began feeling numb at her toes, and realized that they were in a thin film of water cold as ice. Except the water was not exactly fluid, it was a little viscous, mixed with a very fine silt. At first she thought it was of the evil water, but it was only guilty of stagnation.
Abruptly they stopped.
"This is as far as we go." Tyrragor said. His voice was barely above a whisper. The chief made a motion with his other hand as if he was reaching for something, and moved his torch toward it. Instantly another hiss of din came to life, flaring brightly and illuminating almost up to the walls. The chief let the floating ember go and it swung back and forth gently, gaining weight as it did.
It swung from the front of a medium-sized boat, enough to fit the entire Atlawan tribe. The boat was tethered to a stub of rock jutting from the wall. One of the spearmen went to the knot, and untied it. The sides of the boat began to rock and the water about its hull splished quietly. In the dark even the boat wanted to stay hushed.
"This channel will take you several miles and stop. When you reach the other end, please turn the boat around and raise the sail so that it may travel back."
The Dragons exchanged glances, and then Spyro helped Cynder onto the protesting shake of the deck.
Once both were aboard, Tyrragor explained that one would have to steer while the other moved the wheel at the center of the deck for propulsion. Spyro took the wheel, and told Cynder to take the yoke. The yoke was a standalone post positioned in front of the wheel, with two handles on either side to form a T.
Cynder wrapped her fingers around the handles and gently experimented, and found it turned on the post naturally, and if she put just enough strength on it she could move the post itself a little side-to-side. She figured that was not meant to move at all, and so tried her best to keep it from doing so.
"Once back on land it is a short distance to the other end of the cave—although it is disguised with rocks. Please replace them when you are through to the outside."
"I understand Tyrragor," Spyro mumbled, his voice echoing gently across the walls.
"One last thing," the chief and his spearmen placed their hands upon the ship's rump. "Good luck." With a muffled heave they pushed forward, and the water violently protested as the boat convulsed from the turbulence.
Cynder struggled to regain control of the yoke, and as the boat lost its momentum she managed to right it. They now floated freely. She nodded to Spyro, and he placed his hands diligently on the long bars of the turning wheel. The wood began to creak and moan as his arms rolled across the handholds.
The lantern at the head of the boat swayed back and forth, reflecting off the ripples in the still water as they drifted along in silence.
* * *
Terrador grumbled with anger as he rolled onto his feet. The late nights were getting to him—he was awakening long past the sun. A warrior who woke after the sun woke up dead in the afternoon. He looked to his left, and of course his brothers were awake and already doing their jobs.
He spat the morning saliva off his tongue and stretched his legs as he rose. He sniffed the air and looked toward the west; Thunderheads.
"Terrador, you are awake," A small Mole came up and spoke in the usual nervous tone.
Terrador smiled, the Moles were so humble and yet the best of warrior. They had proven their worth in the Battle of Warfang, when Dragons had attacked to gain territory. The Moles had thwarted the Dragons, almost without exercising much skill, and in the end a peace-treaty was formed. A Century later, Dragon City was complete; a sign of the growing friendship between the two once-warring nations.
"Shoulders straight, head up, eyes focused—Attention!"
The Manweersmall struggled to follow the Dragon's commands; he stood as rigidly as possible; his sweaty hand gripped the edge of his shirt.
The Dragon forced him to hold the position for a wrenchingly long moment, until finally at ease was uttered, and he could let his numbing lungs take in a fresh breath of air.
"What news do you bring, Roland?"
"The bi-daily report, sir."
"Speak it while we walk to the reconstruction district."
"Yessir," Roland uttered, and his feet scuttled to keep up with the Dragon's pace. Terrador walked more slowly than usual, as he always did when the Moles were at his side. "The checkpoint at Endre's Gate has reported the Wyverns passing close to dawn."
"Where were they headed?"
"They are arching northward, toward Neam."
"Hmm…" Terrador nodded, "Continue."
"The Grublins in Pineswallow have been suppressed; the troops are heading back and will be here in four days. The Grublins in Karlor are putting up a strong resistance but should be handled with shortly—"
"Just a moment Roland—Cyril!"
Above in the sky, a blue-white Dragon snaked his head and then his body to face toward Terrador as he was called. The Dragon paused in the air for a moment, and then drifted down toward them. As Cyril approached, Roland felt the air cool about him; it was very refreshing on this hot and steamy day.
"What is it Terrador, I am very busy with the patrols."
"Call them off."
Cyril's eyes pulsed. "That is unwise. Against any mounting threat, I am our only warning. And I will not allow this city to fall under my watch."
"And I will not allow you to fall under my watch," Terrador nodded his head westward. "Thunderheads coming from the Tall Plains. See how quickly they move? They will be on us by nightfall."
"Then there's no problem. I can continue my morning patrol an—"
"Call them in. If there is any force that would challenge us it is in that storm; we will not have any aerial defense, and we have a gaping wound in our City. We must bring everyone inside now so that we may prepare for a potential attack."
"Our scouts have mentioned no such trouble in any part of the land." Cyril protested.
"Excuse me," Roland said meekly. Both Dragons broke their glares and stared down at him. He gulped. "The—um—the scouts in the—err—the east have—uh—I mean I don't want to sound—"
"Just tell us already!" Cyril snapped.
"Cyril, please. What is it, Roland?"
"The Orcs on Charrendohl Peak. They have made a move; they sent two forces. One in the direction of Avalar; the other in our direction."
Cyril glared. "When did you hear this?"
"The signals were sent early this morning before sunrise."
"Then how can we be certain you saw the signals correctly? The flags could have been misinterpreted."
"We're Moles—sir….we can see in the dark. Quite well in fact…"
Cyril's lips closed tightly. There was a long moment of silence, until finally he sighed. "Very well, I will call my forces down."
"Have them buffer the reconstruction."
The blue Dragon grumbled, and then batted his wings as he hulked into the air.
"What are you Roland?"
"A Mole, Sir."
"No, I mean your rank."
"Hah—oh—uh, just a sergeant…sir," The Mole removed his hat and wiped his brow.
"Strange…You take me as a captain—lieutenant at least." The Mole seemed very fidgety; Terrador could feel the waves of nervousness emanating from the tiny creature. "Would you like to accompany me to see Volteer?"
"Right away, Sir," Roland said at attention.
"That…was not an order."
The Mole squeaked as he gulped. Nevertheless he followed Terrador down the streets, passing a family of dragonflies observing a statue which Ardo Lennard, a distant cousin of his, was chipping away at with an irritated wrist. He paused to watch his relative's work, and saw the sculpture was just taking the form of a Dragon.
"Spyro's statue," Terrador said.
Roland jumped with fright—he did not realize both he and the Dragon had stopped. "You mean, the Purple Dragon?—The one who defeated the Golem?"
"The very one. That statue will be adorned with amethyst and displayed atop the reconstructed district."
"No wonder my cousin is so agitated."
"The artist is your cousin?" Terrador mused, "How can you tell he is agitated?"
"Look how he swings his hammer—short and quick. He's not even really looking at the stone. I think the pressure must be getting to him—that's an important statue if it's of the Purple Dragon."
"I think he's more agitated by the dragonflies. That one talking to him can be…well, I've grown a tolerance to endless chatter, thanks to Volteer." The Dragon chuckled. "Do you think I could ask your cousin to do another statue when he is done? There is another Dragon who…well, let us say, has been hiding in the shadows."
"I'm not sure if Ardo will be up to it," Roland said passively, and then quickly began correcting himself, "But, I'm sure I can get him interested. Especially if it's a request from you, sir."
"Thank you, Roland. Now, let us hurry. Volteer will probably have seen the thunderheads but I want to make sure he's aware that there might be an attack."