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Trial By Fire Chapter 2
By Teach
Rowan knelt in the soft earth, tending the flowers in the narrow bed that ran the length of the front of his house. It was quiet this afternoon; the only sound came from the birds and a few buzzing insects. His nearest neighbor was two myels away, over the next hill, and he seldom had company. He could have chosen any place to live, after the Great War, but had selected this particular spot for its seclusion. He liked the quiet. King Gerald had even offered him the position of Baron over the Eastern farmsteads, but Rowan had respectfully declined the honor, preferring instead to live out his days in relative peace and quiet. In the villages, stories were told of Rowan the Steadfast, Rowan the Brave, the heroic soldier who had beaten back an entire enemy battalion after his own regiment had fallen. He thought of himself now as Rowan the Gardener, Rowan the Relaxed, a man perfectly content to leave his exploits in the War behind him, safely tucked away in the past. Historians would remember his story; he would have preferred to forget. As he uprooted the tendrils of weed threatening his prized Dragonlily, he heard a sound behind him, the unmistakable clip-clop of horses approaching at a gallop. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a group of ten horsemen, flying the colors of the Castle Guard. He got to his feet quickly.
The group approached, slowing to a trot, moving their horses into a ceremonial tenpins formation. The tenpins cluster was utterly useless in battle, but it was commonly used by members of the King's Army when making arrests or delivering edicts.
"Hail Rowan the Steadfast, hero of the Great War!" the lead horseman shouted. The two riders flanking the leader each held a long, slender horn to their mouths, trumpeted twice, then dropped the horns to their sides in a quick motion.
The group stopped, and the leader walked his horse sideways into Rowan's dooryard. A few paces from Rowan, the rider urged his horse to kneel, and dismounted. He carried a parchment, rolled up tightly and bound with a silk ribbon.
"Good Sir Rowan, by order of the Crown I summon you to the Castle Keep, where you shall have audience with King Gerald."
Rowan sighed. This sort of thing happened now and then; it had been months since the last summons, and he had thought it finished, but it seemed that there must be another medal in the offing, another ceremony to be held in his honor. He wished it would all just go away.
"When would His Majesty have me?"
"This very afternoon," the rider announced. "There is to be a proclamation made to the entire realm, and your presence is required."
"Very well," Rowan agreed, bowing low. "I shall see my horse tacked at once."
The rider returned to his mount and gave the order to ride. The ten-man detachment galloped away over the hill, leaving Rowan with his thoughts.
What sort of proclamation it is to be this time? He wondered. Does His Majesty wish to name a village after me? Or does he perhaps wish to announce Rowan the Steadfast day, upon which everyone will be required to celebrate soddenly in the streets, even school children too young for milk-mead?
He sighed again. It did not matter what the King wanted; Rowan had been summoned, and that was all he needed to know.
King Gerald stood on a high parapet on the Southern face of the castle, with the lovely Queen Vera seated behind and to his right. The Royal Color Guard bore the standards of the Realm, facing away from the King on both his right and left. Below, a crowd had gathered from all over the Kingdom, some riding from as far away as Lorad and Farwest to hear King Gerald speak.
"Good people of the Realm of the Five Rivers," he began, shouting to be heard, his hands raised high over his head in a broad gesture of benevolence, "I bid you welcome."
The crowd cheered briefly, but soon quieted. Word had spread throughout the Kingdom that Gerald had an important proclamation to make on this day, and all were eager to hear it.
"My mind has been greatly troubled, these many weeks, with the problem of a dragon."
A sound of awe and fear moved through the audience. "Thus far, this great and terrible beast has plagued only the sheep and the cattle, but at great cost. Some of the shepherds in the southernmost reaches of the kingdom have lost entire flocks.
"It is therefore that I have gathered my closest advisors to assist me in ridding the Realm of this horrid creature." The crowd roared approval.
"We have wondered, over many guttering torches on many late nights, how best to end the raids and restore the Kingdom to safety, and at last have arrived at an answer." He turned away then, motioning.
Rowan stepped onto the parapet, and the crowd exploded. Several moments passed before order was restored.
"I have called upon the Realm's greatest hero," the King proclaimed, "the mightiest warrior of the Kingdom, to set forth on the morrow, to seek out the dragon's lair, and to dispatch the hateful creature before any more damage can be done."
When the cheering died away again, King Gerald resumed: "A battalion of twenty men, hand-picked from my own cavalry, will ride with Rowan into battle. In a few days' time, we shall have order once again, and the people of the Realm can rest at ease."
Rowan bowed to the King, then to the crowd, and then stepped back inside the castle. He had taken all he could of the cheering onlookers. As he strode away toward the stairs, Rowan could hear the King calling for the crowd to offer three cheers for the heroic Rowan the Steadfast.
Rowan was the most decorated, most celebrated hero in all the Realm, but crowds made him nervous.
"We need first to know where to find it," Rowan explained to King Gerald. "I have no knowledge of dragons or their ways. I would not begin to know where to look for one."
"I shall send for Wendell, then. He was a great tracker of dragons, in the days when they were plentiful. He has tutored many in the ways of the dragon."
And so it was that Rowan came to be in the company of a half-blind, grizzled old man whose brow was constantly furrowed and who answered every question as if it were even more stupid than the last.
"They say it's yellow beneath and green atop," Wendell said, thinking deeply. "That makes her a female of the North Tribe, a vicious one indeed."
Rowan kept his silence, but wondered if there might actually be any dragons other than the vicious ones.
"Now, the North Tribe spread. Where once they were all in the Akoma and Arcana territories, they've spread far and wide. She may have a den in the mountains to the north, right here in the Realm. How often does she come?"
"Two or three times a month," one of the Royal Cavalry answered.
"Probably coming from a great distance then. Tell me, has anyone looked upon her eyes?"
"Red, they say," Rowan answered. "Red as blood."
Wendell waved a hand at him. "Pishposh. There were only a dozen or so red-eyed dragon in all time, and they're gone every one. None of them were of the North Tribe, in any case. Whoever saw red eyes was seeing what wasn't. Probably with the help of mead, I'll wager."
Rowan nodded understanding.
"So all we know is that the dragon comes from the north," Wendell said. "And she's green atop, yellow below. And with orange eyes."
"How do you know--"
"There are two kinds of dragon in the North Tribe, and there's nobody could mistake yellow eyes for red. So 't'would have to be the one with the orange eyes."
"So what does that tell you?" Rowan asked.
"There's only one orange-eyed dragon left in the North Tribe, and it was thought she was killed 'way back in the time of King Ian. No one could ever find her steaming carcass, though. Long years I’ve suspected she lived still."
"Only one," Rowan mused.
"Aye, only one," Wendell repeated. "They called her Fireblood."
Behind Rowan, one of the King's cavalry dropped to his knees and began muttering a prayer.
"Nonsense," Rowan argued. "Fireblood is but a tale, made to frighten slow-witted children." But he wondered. Wendell, after all, was an expert on dragons, selected by the King himself to advise Rowan's party. He had penned the foremost tome on dragon lore, the great volume A Compleat History of Dragyn (or, more accurately, had dictated it to a scribe; Wendell could not make his letters, and kept company with neither quill nor slate).
"You may wish she were only a story, when you see her," Wendell said, grinning toothlessly. "The fire-breathers are the worst. Fear not, though, heroic Rowan. Once your broadsword finds the place beneath her foreleg, she'll fall like any other."
Rowan considered for a long time. At last, he thanked Wendell for the information.
"You're not going to invite me along?" Wendell asked indignantly.
"Invite you along?" Rowan asked, incredulous.
"Foolishness! Why would you ride into the mouth of Death?"
"I want to meet her," Wendell answered, smiling. "I want to ask her a few questions, if she'll let me. You need someone along who knows dragons, and no one knows them like I do."
Rowan had now begun to suspect that Wendell suffered from the Old Man's Disease. "Questions? You would ask questions of a dragon?"
"Oh, aye."
"And...you would expect to get answers?"
"Honest answers," Wendell corrected. "Dragons don't lie."
Rowan looked around at the cavalrymen, who only stared back. Finally, he turned his attention to Wendell once more. "Very well then," he said, "since you wish to go, and since I may have use of you, go and get your horse. We leave in the morning, at first light."
"Already saddled," Wendell replied, grinning.
Rowan turned to leave, but Wendell stopped him. "Bring Dragon's Bane from your garden," he admonished. "It won't do much good against an old one like Fireblood, but if she's got new yearlings in her nest, it should keep them at bay." Rowan stood there for a long moment, blinking stupidly. Yes, he had Dragon's Bane in his garden, but he had always thought it no more than a name; that it might actually repel young dragons was a possibility that had never crossed his mind.
At last, he nodded his understanding and left.
Dark clouds gathered over the Realm in the late evening, and by nightfall had begun to spit a fine drizzle over the villages to the south of the Keep.
Rowan gathered together a few things and placed them in a rucksack, things he might find useful on his journey. He wrapped a dozen sticks of dried venison--all that he had left in the house--and tucked them into the small bag, along with a flintbox, a few medicinal herbs, and a small blanket. He was to travel north, where the cold comes early, and he could not be certain how long he would be away, so the blanket would be handy in helping to prevent the onset of grippe, and the herbs would be there in case the blanket failed its duty.
He reached up onto the mantle shelf and took down the small pot that rested there, a stoneware piece graven with the crest of King Gerald and gilt with tiny strands of real gold. It had been a gift from Queen Vera in recognition of his service during the War. He removed the lid and reached his hand inside the fine pot, removing a tarnished silver pendant on a chain so fine it could hardly be seen--thin even by our standards, and astoundingly strong. He replaced the pot on the mantle and slipped the pendant around his neck. The old silver had been forged long before the time of Rowan's father's father's grandfather, and had been passed on to Rowan through more generations than Rowan could guess. Along with it had been handed down the story that the charm had been fashioned by forest elves now long gone. It was supposed to be a protector of good fortune, something like a modern rabbit's foot. Rowan was inclined to believe in it; he had, after all, been wearing it on the day his detachment had been ambushed and slaughtered by an entire regiment of men from the Far Country, yet here he was, still alive while so many had perished.
He fingered the medallion at his throat. Good fortune? Yes, he felt he would need plenty of that.
He scooped a handful of sweets from a shallow bowl alongside the ornate pot. They were hard candies flavored with honeymead, the kind of candies that could only be bought at the Market of the First Moon, a monthly event in Ianton, the city named for King Ian, near the Keep, in which everyone for miles around gathered to hawk their wares or sell their services. He sighed. He would miss First Moon Market while he was away, and in fact might never see it again. He found himself longing for the simplicity of it, the vast collections of everything from worthless trinkets to the finest swords and armor of both leather and chain, the smell of roast fowl cooking over the open pits and dripping from the greasy fingers of the shoppers and marketers. Perhaps most of all he missed the exquisite taste of his very favorite thing, a slab of tender venison skewered on a stick and baked inside a roll of cornbread, the rare and delightful delicacy they called a Cornbuck but which he simply called heaven.
He found himself wishing for a quick end to this whole sorry business, a speedy return to his comfortable chair by the fire and the few simple pleasures he had come to enjoy since his discharge from the King's Army.
Oh, how he wanted to just stay home.
He tossed a small log on the guttering fire, then returned to his chair alongside the hearth. He wouldn't feed the fire again tonight; it was only ninemonth, after all, and hardly cold enough to warrant a fire in the first place. But there was something comforting about a warm glow from the hearth, something that he would always associate with home, and it was for that reason that he had stoked the fire and now sat before it, despite a fine mist of sweat on his brow.
Fire. What a wonderful, beautiful thing, a force of nature harnessed by man to give him comfort in both body and spirit, to cook the stomach-demons out of his meat, to give him a light in the blackest, deepest darkness.
Unbridled, it was the thing to be feared above all else, a rampaging monster bent on destroying man and all things man-made.
It was most lethal in the form of dragon's breath.
Rowan awoke shortly after first light to the sound of someone’s rooster crowing forlornly in the distance. He scratched himself crudely in that place where men can’t seem to stop scratching, then rose and went to the hearth, still wrapped only in his blanket and nothing underneath. He took a small flask from the hearth and drank from it, a little something he had procured for those times when his courage needed shoring up. He put the flask away half-empty, but after a moment’s consideration he picked it up again. This time he drained it. He was riding out this morning to hunt a dragon, after all, and a little extra courage might come in handy.
He had lain awake most of the previous night, and the precious little sleep he had gotten had been plagued with odd, remarkable dreams. He vividly remembered a woman with glowing red skin, aiming at him with an arrow nocked in a great bow. Beside the woman was a small, sparse boy who wielded Rowan’s own sword, threatening him with it. Behind the two was an enormous, hairy fellow, easily twice the woman’s height, who simply pointed at Rowan and moaned some indecipherable mess that may have been a curse.
Rowan could not imagine the meaning of the dream, but unlike many in the Realm, he was not given to the belief that dreams carried any real meaning. He thought it would be something of a relief to know that he was riding out to face a red-skinned wench, a moaning ogre, and an undernourished boy rather than a ferocious dragon--but dreams, alas, were only dreams.
He stood at the kitchen window, watching the grass become green as the sun rose, taking with it the orange-red of morning. He guessed it to be around Seven O’ the Clock, but could not be certain; he had never owned a clock, had never so much as wound a clock, and wouldn’t have been able to read one if he had it in his very own hands. He disdained the very idea of having some contraption telling him when to squat and when to sleep, and he admittedly feared that clocks would someday usher in an age in which everything would be scheduled, including a day’s work. He couldn’t imagine such an age, and hoped that he wouldn’t live to see it.
He turned his back to the window and went to his bedside, where he slowly dressed. He was reluctant to start his journey, but he also knew that the soldiers assigned to accompany him on his quest would be arriving shortly, and it would not do to present himself naked when they appeared.
He pulled a lambskin tunic over his head and tied it at the waist with a short hank of rope, then pulled on his breeches and stepped into his boots. He cinched his breeches with a leather belt to which his worn scabbard was attached. Then he took a seat on the edge of the bed and stared at the ceiling, ruminating, trying to piece together a few words of prayer that he had learned years before. Nothing came. He called upon the gods so seldom that he had forgotten how to do so properly.
He stood and crossed to the hearth once more. Where most heroes might display their weapons, Rowan’s broadsword was standing point-down in a tall, slender pottery jar beside the fireplace. He hefted it, studied its blade briefly, then sheathed it.
Outside, he heard the faint staccato beat of hooves against the packed earth, as yet distant but closing quickly. He sighed. It would begin now, and there was no way to stop it, no way to postpone it, no way to arrange to have someone else sent in his stead. A nasty business lay ahead, and Rowan looked into the near future with nothing but dread.
With another sigh, he shouldered his pack and his bow. With a last, brief glance at his modest home, strode out to meet the cavalry.
Rowan was not the only one plagued by dreams on that night; elsewhere in the Realm (and not terribly far from Rowan’s country home, at least by today’s measure), Grimbley Goode awoke in the dark, shivering against the sort of cold from which no blanket could defend him. He hugged himself tightly, wishing the chill away, but to no avail; this feeling came from the inside, and it would only go away in its own time.
Grimbley tucked his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes tightly, willing the pictures in his mind—-remnants of a dream, they were—-to go away and leave him in peace. It was a fruitless effort, as he had known it would be; the gruesome dream would not leave him for some time, if ever. It was too dreadful, too horrific, to be forgotten by a boy’s simple act of will.
He stood and moved quickly to the fireside. He stopped there, staring into the bright orange-yellow glow of the fire.
It looked just like the dragon’s breath in his dream.
Poor, poor Rowan had died a horrible, ghastly death, falling easily before the great beast in the dream, and Grimbley had awakened in terror immediately.
It was your idea, he thought upon waking, and the words had not stopped echoing in his head since. He knew that Rowan and his small detachment were riding to their doom because of him, a young, homely shepherd boy, and the thought filled him with a terrible, overpowering feeling of guilt.
Rowan was a hero in the Great War, he reminded himself, but the thought did little to assuage the terrible feeling that he had sent a man—-more than one man, at that-—into the face of certain death.
He pushed past the door-blanket and out into the chilly morning air. He hugged himself tightly as he stood there, letting the cold work its way deep inside him, bringing him fully awake. He watched as the black sky grew first dark purple and then early-morning orange. At last, confident that he was now as alert as possible, he turned and went back inside the hovel.
He reached into the cold-pantry in the floor of the kitchen and selected two eggs from their sheepskin bag. He took a flat iron pan from its place on the wall and set it on the table, then broke the eggs into it. He carried the pan to the hearth and placed it near the coals, then went back to the cupboard. After rummaging for several minutes, he was able to produce three small, withered strips of dried venison to go with the eggs. With an inward sigh, he returned to the hearth. Breakfast would be sparse this morning, but that was hardly unusual; they had precious little to trade for flour and milk and butter and ham since the dragon raids had begun.
He finished frying the eggs, then placed the pan on the table alongside the few strips of jerky, and then went to wake his mother.
She roused slowly, grudgingly, unwilling to rise and face the day. She had not always been this way; Grimbley remembered a time, not so long ago, when his mother had risen early, preparing breakfast, humming tunelessly and moving briskly, seeming to float above the hard-packed dirt floor like a spirit.
She was afraid, he knew, of what would become of them. If Rowan’s company found the dragon and laid it to rest, the remaining herd might be enough to get them through the snow season, and with Spring would come the opportunity to begin anew. If Rowan failed, the flock now in the fields would be in grave danger. If the raiding dragon went unchecked, they stood to lose all of their animals—and, along with them, all that they had worked for.
She at last got to her feet and shuffled into the kitchen. She smiled wanly at the sight of the meager breakfast, then turned to her son, stroking his hair and kissing his cheek.
“Such a very good boy,” she said.
Grimbley blushed but did not reply. He took his place across from her at the table, and they began to eat, savoring each bite, eating slowly so it would last.
“Mother,” Grimbley ventured past a mouthful of egg. “What do you suppose will become of Rowan and his men?”
“They will surely be honored in a great ceremony at the castle.”
He nodded. “But...what if the dragon wins?”
She considered this for a moment. “Then they will still be honored, I should think, only the ceremony will be somewhat different.”
He put down his fork. “I feel I’ve condemned Rowan to his doom.”
“Nonsense,” his mother argued. “You didn’t send Rowan and his men to find the dragon. It was King Gerald’s doing.”
“The King’s word, but my idea.”
His mother chuckled softly. “You are a smart lad, Grim, but I think not wiser than a King. He would have thought of it, in time.” She leaned close to him, taking his hands in hers. “You are far too like your father, young one. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, when it is not yours to carry.”
He looked down at his breakfast, then nodded gently. “Yes, mother.” That would close the subject, at least for her. Grimbley still felt in his heart that he was responsible for the fate of Rowan—-whatever that fate might turn out to be.
©2004 James Clark
8/11/2004 11:47:28 AM
(Updated: 8/27/2004 9:38:10 PM)
(Updated: 9/10/2004 4:03:48 PM)
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