Free Sir Dalton and the Shadow Heart by Chuck Black Page B

before the agony of their tearing beaks increased the pain of his pierced torso tenfold. He grasped the grisly blade once again and lifted with all his might, but the pain made his attempt paltry. He covered his eyes with his hands to protect them and felt the ravens descend on him like a thick black thundercloud. But the world of unconsciousness mercifully swallowed him before any flesh was torn from his body.

    The way of a fool is right in his eyes
,
But he that listens to counsel is wise!
    The lyrical words of this strange song were faint and hollow to Dalton, but as his mind lifted from the fog, the voice became clearer.
    A lying tongue is a brief endeavor,
But the lip of truth will last forever!
    The voice seemed to belong to an aged man. He hummed the tune when there were no words to sing.
    Dalton tried to open his eyes, but every fiber of his body, including his eyelids, felt as if they were crushed by the granite of a mountain.
    “Am I dead?” he asked.
    He heard the shuffle of old feet coming toward him. He opened his eyes enough to see a blurry figure bent over him.
    “Yes, you are,” the old man said. “Well…not quite.”
    Dalton tried to lift his head but as his neck muscles pulled taut, his abdomen shot barbs of reminder pain to stop him. He winced.
    “Where am I?”
    “Well, you’re not in the bellies of twenty death ravens, and you’re not wrapped around a blade of steel.” The old man lifted his chin slightly and peered down his nose at Dalton as if to get a closer look at him. “You are in my cave, and I don’t really like visitors, so you’d best be on your way now.”
    Dalton was extremely confused, and the babblings of this old fellow weren’t helping.
    “Off you go now…off with you.”
    Dalton tried to roll to his side and moaned in deep pain.
    “Not well enough?” The old man looked concerned. “I guess you can stay awhile longer, but you’ll have to compensate me when it’s time.”
    “Who are you, sir?” Dalton asked as he looked closer at the strange character.
    “I’m a collector.”
    Dalton squinted in his confusion.
    “I take old things and make them new,” the old man said with a grin. His full head of white hair flowed to the back of his neck. His eyes were deep blue and did not look wild or deranged. The gentle wrinkles on his face seemed to have been formed by joyful smiles rather than by scowls or burdensome toiling. His welcoming countenance contradicted his dismissive words.
    “For example…,” the man continued. He shuffled to a table nearby where he had tools and polishing instruments. It took considerable effort, for he was slightly bent and walked with a hindered gait. “Here are two buckles that I found cast aside. One is old and tarnished, but look at this one.”
    Dalton turned his head with effort. The bronze buckle gleamed in gnarled, wrinkled hands.
    “See how beautiful it is. Both of these looked like the first, but with the right tools and some hard work, this one shines brilliantly.”
    Dalton didn’t care at all about polished buckles. He turned back and closed his eyes. The longer he was awake, the more miserable he felt. He wondered if his death had just been postponed a day or two.
    “I’m thirsty,” he said, realizing he hadn’t drunk any water all day.
    “You should be… It’s been days since you’ve been here. You’ve taken a few sips of water, but that is all.”
    The old man brought a cup to Dalton and helped him lift his head to drink. The water was cool and refreshing. It tasted sweet, and when Dalton finished the cup, he asked for more. It seemed to wash him from the inside out.
    Dalton suddenly realized that his enemy might be near. Surely it would be impossible for this old man to drag him very far.
    “Lord Drox—where is he?” he asked with eyes wide.
    “Lord Drox?” the old man tilted his head.
    “Yes, the one who pierced me through. The mighty warrior who has imprisoned many knights.”
    “Ah…you speak of the