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Trial By Fire Chapter 1
By Teach
It was in the days after the Great War that the tiny village of Lorad came under siege, not by men with trebuchet and spear but by a great and terrible beast from the far mountains. None had seen a dragon in many seasons, and there was much speculation. Some called it the ghost of a dragon, slain many years before and come for revenge. Some claimed that the dragon had been awakened during the Siege of Three Moons, in which men from the Far Country had lain against the walls of King Gerald's keep for ninety days and nights, that the constant noise of catapult and the screams of the wounded had aroused the dragon from a great and deep sleep.
But the question of what had brought the rare and dangerous creature about was a moot one; what mattered was the dragon itself. Lorad was known far and wide as the largest manufacturer of wool and sheepskin and fresh lamb and mutton. It was, of course, the great flocks of Lorad to which the ravenous dragon turned its wicked eyes.
In the beginning, the raiding beast had taken only a few at a time, and the losses had been calculable but small. In time, however, the serfs who kept the sheep had begun to report entire herds lost in a single night, swept away on dark wings in the depths of the darkness. Those who witnessed the dragon's raids took up service as servers in the taverns and apprentice blacksmiths, choosing wisely to stay clear of the flocks and the fields. Lorad lay within the realm of the Five Rivers, and therefore under the leadership of King Gerald the Strong. His armies had repelled the greatest and most vicious attacks in all of memory, during the Great War, and although he had been referred to previously as King Gerald the Witless, he was now looked upon with much respect and reverence. He was the man whose armies were to be feared above all others. Stories and legends of their exploits had sprung up throughout the land, and the stories always seemed to mention King Gerald, helm pressed firmly to his head, riding into the midst of the invading armies, lance at the ready, setting torch to the mighty seige weapons that had for so long plagued the walls of his castle. While Gerald was still not known for his wisdom, it went without saying that he was a man not to be pressed. Since the war, no one had ever dared challenge him in public, and only the most reckless few would speak against him in the quiet privacy of their own homes. Those who did were usually under the spell of Anne Saffron's best ales.
So it was like a thunderclap on a sunny afternoon when a young shepherd approached the king, demanding that something be done to stop the raids.
Now, of course, no boy--especially not a lowly serf shepherd--could have ever gained audience with His Majesty, so this young man had to devise a way to present himself to King Gerald in another way.
On the night of the full moon, at the end of the war, the entire kingdom gathered to celebrate in the streets of their villages, and the King rode in a great parade that visited every town within his realm. This celebration was such a tremendous success that nearly everyone in the kingdom clamored to make it a monthly event. Innkeepers, taverners, wenches and foodservers all insisted that the great celebration be repeated each and every full moon. They cited the King's greatness as the reason, of course, although few failed to see that their pockets were bulging with coin.
Grimbley Goode sat before the dying fire, roasting the last ear of corn from the cold-pantry, wondering whether his mother would notice if he split it unevenly and gave her the bigger half. He'd only collected a few coins for the last batch of wool he had carted to market; the blasted dragon had taken half the flock and left him with far too few animals to make ends meet. He hoped against all hope that the few remaining sheep would render a considerable litter of spring lambs.
In the meantime, he had to hope that the blasted dragon wouldn't return to take the few animals he had left.
Curse the dragon, and curse the King and his armies, who had not so much as lifted a finger to see the great beast done for. The mighty King Gerald, for all his legendary, heroic exploits, hadn't decreed that the dragon must die, hadn't announced his intention to ride to the North, toward the mountains, to ferret out the horrible worm and run him through with his lance.
And why should he, young Grimbley wondered, when the people of his kingdom seemed content to let the dragon's raids go unchallenged? No one had spoken up, no one had demanded results, and no one had dared to charge the King and his armies with what should clearly have been their duty.
These thoughts remained with him through supper (his mother noticed the disparity between the two halves of the roast ear, and insisted that he take the bigger piece). She talked idly, sharing the gossip she had gathered earlier that day. Small towns and villages like Lorad thrive on gossip, and probably always will. She told him that Joss, the cobbler, who had shod most everyone in Lorad who could afford shoes, had suddenly packed up his shop and slipped away in the night. Rumor had it that he had gone to join the Redstockings, a privateer group who pirated every vessel with the stupidity or ill fortune to stray too near the southern coast. The pirate band had been hunted to near extinction at one time, but managed to thrive during the Great War, plundering both civilian and military transports and selling the surplus goods to both sides.
Grimbley laughed at the idea of fat old Joss, with his round, red, sweaty face, joining a band of merciless marauders. Perhaps he could come in handy if they needed shoes.
His mother talked on, offering details about who had done what and to whom, relating stories of drunkenness and debauchery from all over the town and from as far away as the castle keep. "Mother," he said, once her telling of tales had begun to wane, "what do you hear of the dragon?"
She shrugged. "Same as always. The flocks have been plucked at 'til there's hardly anything left to pluck. And it's not just here, either. Whole herd of milk cows from over in Gerain came missing last week, and there's talk that even a few horses have been taken."
"Have you heard anything about what the King intends to do about it?"
She leaned close. "Best that we don't question King Gerald's decisions. He'll see to this, in time."
Grimbley said no more; he moved to the window and stared out at the stars, for a time, and eventually went off to bed. The flock was never far from his mind, nor was the dragon, nor the king. His mother was right; the King would take care of things, in time...but when? If matters weren't soon taken in hand, the Goodes would have no flock to tend, and what then? His mother had taken work once, years before, mending clothes, but her hands were not nearly so steady now, and he often saw her squinting at things close at hand. He suspected that she might need spectacles, but only royalty and nobility could afford such luxuries, so her mending days were likely done. The King would deal with the dragon in time.
So, as he lay on his bed awaiting the pixies to dust him off to sleep, Grimbley Goode began to think of a way to speed up the process.
The night of the full moon arrived. The people of every village in the Kingdom found their way to the mead-houses and inns and tipped their mugs in celebration as they awaited the arrival of the King's parade. This would be the eleventh such parade; nearly a year after the end of the Great War, it seemed that very few had grown tired of celebrating. Innkeepers opened their doors at midday, wenches plied their trade from sunrise to well past sunset, and mead and ale and wine flowed in great rivers.
The only subjects in the entire Kingdom not taken by drink or whore were the Outposters and a handful of the Royal Guard. The Guard divided themselves into two groups and alternated, one month riding with the parade to insure King Gerald's safety and security, and the next month joining in the revelry. Only those stationed in the Outposts were cut off from the celebration entirely.
The village of Lorad was a hive. The only people working were serving either drink or companionship, and even those went about their business distractedly. Fights broke out between mead-house patrons who wanted their mugs filled and the proprietors who were occupied emptying mugs of their own. Such altercations exploded into full-blown brawls, spilling out of the taverns and into the streets. The Overseers, assigned by the Crown to police each and every village in the realm, were far too busy and much too drunk to disperse the brawling crowds.
Word began to spread, around about eight o' the clock, that the King's Parade was on the Northern Road and would pass through Lorad within the hour. The revelry started afresh then, with drunken chanting in the very streets. A portly, sodden man passed out on his feet and dropped the torch he had been carrying, which then rolled into the doorway of his home and set his door-curtain alight. The hovel burned to the ground with a gathering crowd encircling it, chanting and singing. The poor collapsed drunk would wake amidnight, head throbbing, and wander about until sunrise before realizing that his home was gone.
A cheer swept through the gathered crowd as the parade's vanguard came into view. Clay mugs shattered on the cobblestones and the cannon in the Northwest Lookout boomed once (but only once, as cannon-powder was difficult to make). Then the King's own carriage arrived, with King Gerald and the lovely Queen Vera waving to the shrieking, enraptured onlookers.
It was then that Grimbley Goode leapt into the middle of the street, between the horses of the vanguard and the King's wagon. While there are many wonders to be told of that time and place, perhaps the greatest of all is that none of the Royal Guard unsheathed their deadly shortswords and ran the poor boy through.
The King's driver reigned the four-horse team to a halt, his eyes wide with terror. That the small, thin boy in the street presented a danger to the wagon or its royal passengers did not cross his mind; that the King would have the undernourished waif on the block by sunrise was almost a certainty.
"My King," the boy called, straining to be heard over the roaring crowd.
King Gerald stood, his great robes flowing behind him, and raised both hands, calling for silence. Even in their cups, the crowds wisely settled, first to a murmur and then to dead quiet.
"Who addresses the King?" A Royal Guardsman demanded.
"Grimbley Goode," the boy answered. The crowd tittered.
"Be still, Guardsman," the King commanded, then directed his attention to Grimbley. "Would you seek audience with the Throne?"
"I would, Majesty," Grimbley said, then knelt hurriedly so as not to seem defiant. The King looked around at the crowd, many of whom were holding their hands over their throats instinctively. He smiled broadly, and the crowd relaxed. The boy would be dealt with, of course, but clearly Gerald would be merciful, and something in his face showed the people of Lorad that his main interest was to have some sport with this stripling.
"Pray tell me, lad," the King went on, "could this not have waited until tomorrow? It must be of great import, to bring on the interruption of such an important celebration."
The crowd tittered again, but hushed quickly as the boy answered the King: "There could be no better time, Highness, since this parade is the very issue."
The crowd murmured and muttered, and Gerald scowled. Perhaps the boy would not be spared from the block, after all.
"You see, your majesty, while the war is nearly a year gone, the parade continues every moon. Yet new threats, real threats, go unheeded. What shall we do about the menace from the north, the dragon of the mountains?"
The King looked around at the crowd, gauging their reaction, and was quite surprised to see a great many heads nodding in agreement. This dragon, it seemed, was a serious issue. He looked at Queen Vera, who only looked back at him. Word had come to the throne about the dragon's raids, but discussion of how best to handle the marauder had been swept aside in favor of more pleasant subjects. At last, he leveled his eyes at young Grimbley Goode and smiled. "It is a bold lad indeed who makes demands of his King," he said, "and that boldness shall not be punished. It is bold boys like you who grow to be the heroic soldiers, like those who fought in the Great War."
The crowd burst into explosive applause, cheering the King and the heroes of the War. When they quieted at last, Gerald spoke again: "You may rest assured that my advisors and I have spent these many weeks discussing how best to deal with the Worm of the North, and an announcement is forthcoming."
The crowd cheered again; here was the great Gerald, hero of the War, promising to put an end to the night raids and the devastated flocks. But Grimbley only looked squarely into King Gerald's eyes. His face showed doubt in no small measure.
"Stand aside, whelp," someone in the crowd called, "and let the parade go on!"
The gathered spectators echoed the sentiment until the noise grew into a great roar. At last, Grimbley hung his head and stepped off the cobblestones. He was swallowed up by the crowd, disappearing into the mass of flesh. He heard the King's driver urge the horses on, and the crowd roared approval. Aboard his coach, the King smiled and waved, waved and smiled, and as soon as they passed the fringes of the village, he turned to Queen Vera. "The village of Lorad shall now expect an announcement," he lamented, "so I shall need to think of something to announce."
©2004 James Clark
8/4/2004 8:37:17 PM
(Updated: 8/5/2004 8:35:58 PM)
(Updated: 8/11/2004 4:22:37 PM)
(Updated: 9/10/2004 4:03:27 PM)
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