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Trial By Fire Chapter 5
By Teach
Darkness had taken hold of all the land. Rowan and his company sat in a loose circle with a guttering fire at its center, discussing the day’s events. Most were exuberant and a trifle silly; someone had stumbled onto a large, tangled growth of highly potent staggerberries, and the cavalrymen were skirting drunkenness.
Wendell came to Rowan’s side, carrying his great, heavy book before him, its leaves opened to a place near the middle.
“Rowan,” he said softly, “take a look at this.”
“What is it now?”
“You see this map? Take a look.”
“I am looking,” Rowan said, “but I should like to have someone explain what I am seeing.”
“The large red mark here,” Wendell explained, pointing, “it the place in the mountains where Fireblood was once known to dwell.”
“So that should be our destination.”
“Indeed,” Wendell continued, “but see here. The short path to the lair would lead here.” He tapped his finger on the map for emphasis.
“And that is?”
“The gates of the Kingdom of the Mountains.”
“Very well, then,” Rowan said simply.
“Not very well atall!” Wendell countered. “The Kingdom of the Mountains should be avoided. They took the side of the enemy in the Great War. You see, King Gerald declared some years ago that no wool should be sent to the Kingdom of the Mountains without a tax, owing to the fact—“
“Spare me the lesson in Gerald’s politics,” Rowan interrupted. “What does it mean to us?”
“It means we have need to find another way to the dragon.”
“What, then, do you have to suggest?”
“There is but one other way,” Wendell went on. “We shall have to pass through the swamp here, where it is said that the Wellingo still hide and wait. From there we must—“
“What, pray tell, is a Wellingo?”
Wendell stared at Rowan as one might stare at a complete idiot. “The Wellingo! The Wellingo!”
“So you have said. Perhaps there is more to tell?”
“Every fool’s foolish child knows the stories of the Wellingo, who hide and wait.”
“Well, then, since I am no longer a child, perhaps you can offer some enlightenment? Indulge me.”
“The Wellingo are great, hairy, ill-tempered beasts who hide and wait for passersby. They are masters of disguise, able to appear as trees and bushes. They feed on the flesh of men. Do you not recall the child’s tale of David and the Wellingo?”
“Sadly, I must admit that I have forgotten that one.”
“It tells of a boy named David—“
“As the name of the story would suggest,” Rowan interrupted. “I should love to hear the tale all in all someday, but for now, perhaps you could tell me of what lies beyond this dreadful swamp?”
“Beyond the swamp is a vast unknown,” Wendell explained. “No man has passed through the swamp and lived to tell.”
“Then I suppose it would be too much to ask what lies beyond the vast unknown?”
“The Gateway,” Wendell answered, as if Rowan were a simple child asking foolish questions.
“The Gateway,” Rowan repeated, nonplused.
“Yes, of course, the passage to the mountains. It’s said to be guarded by a creature so fearsome that none dare mention its name.”
“How vague,” Rowan sighed.
Wendell drew away a bit. “You speak as one who does not believe.”
“I do not wish to mock you, Wendell, for your knowledge of dragon lore is without compare. Further, I do not wish to mock the myths you seem to hold so dear. But does it not strike you as passing strange that everyone seems to know that there is something terrible in the mountains, yet no man has ever seen it?”
Wendell considered for a moment, then shook his head.
“If no one has seen this...guardian,” Rowan explained, “then how can anyone know that there is such a creature?”
Wendell shrugged. “No one is sure,” he said timidly. “But it is believed by many.”
“The tooth-pixies are believed by many, as well. I shall believe the stories of the creature also, as soon as I see that it exists.”
Wendell considered this for a long moment. “You cannot believe what is not before your eyes? You lack faith, my young friend.”
Rowan stared into the dying fire for a long time. “I have never had a need for it,” he said at last.
Grimbley only picked at his rabbit.
It wasn’t that it didn’t taste good; it was, in fact, quite delicious, either because Cirena was as skilled a cook as she boasted or because he had not eaten since supper the previous night. It had been cooked slowly, so that the meat was delightfully tender and all but melted in his mouth. He had looked forward to the light meal from the moment he had seen the pair of lop-eared does cowering in the brush, and by the time they had finished cooking, his mouth was watering uncontrollably.
But he was saving room for pie.
Cirena conceded that the pie might not be the best she had ever made, since she had no proper oven for baking and was not certain what particular variety of berries she was using. They certainly looked adequate--they were large and plump and purple, and Grim had sampled one and found it sweet and rather rich.
“How long until the pie is ready?”
Cirena had taken it from the fire a few minutes before, placing it on the ground to cool. “Impatient boy. You haven’t even finished your supper.”
Grimbley said nothing. He looked downcast, like a child who has been denied a treat—-which, come to that, was exactly what he was.
“It should be ready now that it’s cooled a bit,” she said, still smiling. She turned and took up the pie, looking at it uncertainly. It was the most peculiar-looking pie she had ever seen. Having no flour to make a shell, she had poured the mashed berries into a halved gourd instead. Further, she had lacked anything to add into the mix, none of the spices and seasonings one would have on hand in a proper kitchen, so the ‘pie’ had actually ended up being a half-gourd full of cooked berries. But she was confident that Grimbley, a young and hungry boy with an appetite for sweets, would find it acceptable. She doubted that he would relish it and ask for seconds, but at least he would not scream and throw it away in the forest.
She passed the gourd to him. Having brought along no spoons, Grim had to think how to retrieve the thick berry goo from the gourd, and eventually decided to use the tip of his dagger as a makeshift utensil. He scooped a big, sloppy bite of the purple mess onto the end of the blade and turned it to his mouth.
His eyes grew wide, and for a moment, Cirena’s did, too. She hadn’t expected such a reaction, but she was completely unprepared for what came next.
“Gods!” Grim shouted, staring at the muck left in the gourd.
“Is it so bad?” she said apologetically. “I hadn’t the things I needed to make a proper—“
“This is by far the best cobbler’s pie I have ever tasted!” Grimbley exclaimed. He seemed to consider saying something more, but instead thrust the tip of his dagger into the gourd and scooped out more pie.
Cirena clapped her hands together, delighted. She took pride in her ability to cook, and even more in her new-found knack for making something from nothing. She watched, smiling, as Grim shoveled in mouthful after mouthful of the berry pulp. After several moments, he paused, dagger in midair, and raised his eyes to meet hers.
She stared back at him uncertainly.
“Would you like some?” he asked sheepishly.
Cirena couldn’t help but laugh. “No, no, Grimbley, I made this especially for you. If there is a taste left at the end, I shall taste it. Elsewise, enjoy it all for yourself.”
Grim smiled broadly and looked at her for a moment longer, then went doggedly back to work on the pie. He had purple muck on his cheeks and purple streaks down the front of his jerkin, but he did not seem to notice. He relished every single bite of the makeshift pie, then passed the gourd to Cirena. “I tried to leave you a little,” he said. “But it was not easy.”
“Thank you, young Master Goode.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “thank you. That was the tastiest pie ever, even better than my mother’s--” His voice trailed off then, and he fell into a contemplative silence.
“You left your mother to come out here,” Cirena guessed.
Grim nodded slowly.
“I’m sure you miss her terribly,” Cirena said sympathetically, then tucked two fingers into the gourd and scooped out a considerable helping of the berry pulp. She tucked her fingers into her mouth, then froze, grimacing. She threw the gourd aside and spat violently into the brush.
“What is it?”
“You are going to have a bad night, I fear,” Cirena said softly.
“How do you mean?” Grim asked, breathless.
“You’ve just eaten enough staggerberries to put a very large man flat on his back.”
“Staggerberries? What in the name of the Gods is a staggerberry? You mean like the berries they use in Kingswine? Those staggerberries?”
“I’m afraid so,” she nodded. “Did you not notice the taste made you fell light and giddy?”
“I thought it was just because it tasted so good,” Grim said sickly. “I’m just a boy! How was I to know what a staggerberry tastes like? What is to become of me?”
“You’ll become very drunk, very soon,” Cirena said gravely. “If you are fortunate, you’ll fall asleep quickly, and awake in the morning with a terrible ache in your head.”
“And what if I am not so fortunate?”
Cirena didn’t reply. Grim had his answer soon enough. The world swam away from him and was reluctant to swim back; try as he might, he couldn’t bring his eyes to focus. He realized that he was leaning to the right, about to fall, and so pushed to his left to correct it. In doing so, he flung himself onto his left side, smacking the soft earth.
Instinct told him to stand and flee from this insanity, a grave miscalculation at best. He managed to get to his feet—-a minor miracle—-but immediately went back down, this time on one knee. He held his arms out at his sides, desperate to balance himself, and went straight down onto his unprotected face.
“Grimbley!” Cirena shouted, and rushed to his side. She took him by the arms and gently turned him over. “Stay down,” she advised. “You won’t be able to stand up for a while.”
“Begone!” he shouted, struggling to get the two simple syllables out. “You’ve poishoned me, you wench!”
“You are not poisoned,” she retorted, stifling a laugh. “Only drunk.”
“Surely I am to die,” he slurred. “Thish very night, and such a great dinst—-disn—-so far from home.”
“You will not die,” she assured him, “but by the dawn, you may wish that it were so.”
“I already wish that it were so,” he groaned, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. He stared up into the empty sky, focusing on a point between the two Cirenas in his vision. He blinked, blinked again, and then felt the earth begin to move beneath him.
“The dragon is come!” he shouted.
“Shhh,” Cirena urged. “Be still.”
“We musht flee,” he said stupidly. “The earth trebles—trammels--”
“The ground seems to move because of the berries. You are horribly, terribly drunk. Now, please, it would serve you best to be still.”
Grim rolled over abruptly, groaning, and crawled at a crazy angle toward the brush nearby. He thrust his head into the low growth, and Cirena could hear the barking, baying sound of his sickness.
This would be a long, long night.
The Kingdom slept.
In the turrets at every corner of the great walls of the Keep, and on the rooftops of certain buildings within the villages, the watchmen kept their watches in the dark stillness. Keeping watch in the Kingdom of the Five Rivers had become something of a tiresome job since the end of the Great War, for the only things happening of note in all the land were the dragon raids, and the great beast kept wisely to the fringes, far from lookouts and guard posts.
In an outpost tower, not far from the village of Lorad, a watchman named Philip—-known to his fellows as Philip the Unlucky—-was in his usual place and doing his usual work. He mostly sat, while on watch, staring out into the emptiness, oblivious of all that happened around him, hoping for something exciting to report. That, and digging in his nose with one long, crooked fingernail.
He tried to be surreptitious, but the poor fool could not hide his hobby; everyone in Royal Guard Company Falcon, to which he was currently assigned, knew of this vulgar habit and made much sport of young Philip behind his back. He knew himself to be the subject of all the talk, but simply could not bring himself to stop.
As he sat there, alone in the tower, his gnarled finger found its way deftly to that spot in his left nostril. A sweet, sticky treat awaited Philip there, and he could hardly wait to pluck it from its hiding place and get a good look at it.
Then something caught his eye. In the distance, just above the treetop, a pair of faint, yellowish-orange lights appeared. They were distant, but seemed to be moving closer, which made him pause in the midst of his digging, finger buried to the first knuckle, staring into the black.
As the pair of lights drew closer, Philip the Unlucky realized with dawning horror exactly what he was seeing. He did what any man would have done under the circumstances, and felt a warm trickle down his leg as a result. Still he stood there, finger locked in place, wet below the waist, trembling.
The dragon swooped down, and Philip could hear the death-scream of a hapless ewe with the ill fortune to be caught in the open.
Motivated by the horrible shriek of the sheep, Philip collected his bow and nocked an arrow, his hands shaking wildly. He collected every ounce of his courage, tried to steady himself, and let fly.
The arrow flew straight and true, and for a moment, poor Philip was exuberant. He had never shot so well, not even in his best day at archery training, and could not wait to relate the story to his fellows. Perhaps this would even take their minds off of making sport of him, at least for a while. Perhaps, he thought, they would forget it entirely, when they saw the dragon in a heap at the foot of the tower.
The arrow hit home, sinking deep into the dragon’s broad, scaly chest. The great beast roared, a sound that woke many and caused still more to have horrifying nightmares. The dragon’s tremendous wings curved around it, flapping in a semicircle as the creature brought itself to a hover directly across from Philip in the tower. It was in the air, almost still, about ninety paces from where the trembling guardsman stood, shakily trying to nock a second arrow and meeting with absolutely no success.
Philip could see a faint spark where the arrow had seated, followed by trickle of glowing, reddish-orange fluid that he assumed must be the dragon’s blood.
Then the creature roared again. It drew its great head back, curving its long, slender neck into a question mark, and opened its great jaws.
Philip knew what was coming but was too terrified to do anything more than stand and watch. As he stood there, still trembling, the dragon belched a great jet of flame, bright orange and yellow with a hint of blue at its base, and Philip had just enough time to think how beautiful the flame was before he was cooked alive in the top of the ruined, burning tower.
On the ground, a double handful of onlookers had emerged from their homes with torches, swords, and bows, but the dragon had no intention of being brought down by peasants this night. It climbed high into the air, stirring a great and terrible wind as it went, then turned and returned, swooping down from its place on high, passing low over the small crowd of men who had come out to defend their farms and homes. The dragon climbed back into the sky, its left wingtip just clipping the burning tower and sending a shower of sparks into the blackness of the night.
The tremendous beast then turned, its orange eyes keen in the darkness, and swooped down again. It passed directly above the group of men, its scaly hide deflecting poorly-aimed arrows, and when it rose again, a young blacksmith’s apprentice was grasped in the sharp, cruel claws of its gnarled feet.
Rowan’s company rose slowly. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, the day was cool, and Rowan was eager to get moving. Wendell rose and gathered his things, and Rowan noted the old man’s movements were quick and lithe, like a man half his age. Surely Wendell was eager, as well, eager to meet with one of the great beasts which had become his life’s passion.
The cavalrymen rose more slowly. Although highly trained and disciplined, they were under the spell of the previous night’s berries and so were loath to face the bright morning sun.
Rowan had not touched the berries. One of the key reasons that staggerberries were pressed into wine was that, in their natural, solid state, they caused some unpleasant side effects; Rowan expected that the morning would move slowly, with the cavalry stopping frequently to seek privacy in the bushes. Some of the men were already making loud, pungent gas as they stirred.
With an inward sigh, Rowan gathered his things and slung his pack over his shoulder. He stood and sheathed his sword, then clapped his hands together. Some of the King’s men covered their ears to block out the sudden bursts of sound. Serves them right, Rowan thought.
“Men,” he announced, “today we will make the northern border. By sunset I will be camped on the fringes of the swamps. We must not forget the importance of this journey.”
Many groaned; one fat rider dropped back to the ground and slung his arm across his eyes.
“Those who do not wish to journey with me may return now and inform King Gerald that you have deserted the cause.”
That got the men moving. The fat soldier who had been trying to go back to sleep reached his feet in an instant, gathering up his small pack and his bow and hurrying toward Rowan, his flesh jiggling beneath his leather breastplate. A few moments later, the entire group had assembled.
The trumpeter raised his horn to his lips, meaning to sound the morning call, but Rowan waved a dismissing hand at him. “We are not at the garrison,” he admonished. “In this forest, and in the days to come, we should not draw the sort of attention that a horn might bring.”
“But...but I am the trumpeter,” the soldier protested. “It is my duty.”
“Have you neither sword nor bow?” Rowan demanded.
“Well, yes, sir,” the trumpeter answered hesitantly. “But it is customary--”
“I served in Gerald’s army, if you will recall. I know what is customary. I also know that I have no need of a trumpeter who cannot wield a weapon. Can you run through an enemy with a sword, or strike a target with an arrow?”
“I can, sir.”
“Then pack away the horn. Beginning today, you are a soldier in the King’s cavalry. If you choose to be a musician, the man who owns the Kicking Donkey is a dear friend. I shall find you work in his tavern when we return to the villages.”
The trumpeter suddenly found his feet terribly interesting.
Rowan stepped away and addressed the group as a whole. “Last evening was a disgrace,” he said sternly. “Men committed to the service of the King and Kingdom fell lax. You slept the sleep of drunkards, and I was left to trade the watch with a man far too old to be keeping vigil. Henceforth, neither wine nor ale nor mead nor staggerberry shall touch the lips of any man in this command, until this sorry business is finished and the dragon Fireblood’s head is mounted over the castle gates.”
A low murmur moved through the group.
“If there is dissent, let it be heard by all,” Rowan said sharply.
“We are but men,” someone protested. “We need our drink and our smoke--”
“And wenching!” someone shouted, and the group tittered.
Rowan stepped forward, parting the assembled men, coming face-to-face with the cavalryman who had launched the protest.
“You shall have your drink, and it shall be water. You shall have your smoke, and it shall come from the gullet of the great dragon. And you may have your wenching, so long as one of your comrades is willing. Have you any further requests, you undisciplined, soft-bellied frog’s testicle?”
The cavalryman said nothing. Rowan stared at him, face-to-face, for a time that seemed eternal. At last, he stepped away, casting one last glance at the men. He strode to where Gethsemane stood tied to a tree and readied to mount.
“He’s truly a great leader,” one of the soldiers muttered.
“He’s truly a barking lunatic,” another replied.
Comments and criticism greatly appreciated!
©2004 James Clark
9/9/2004 1:55:43 AM
(Updated: 9/9/2004 2:10:42 AM)
(Updated: 9/9/2004 2:21:52 AM)
(Updated: 9/10/2004 4:04:51 PM)
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