|
Trial By Fire Chapter 6
By Teach
Cirena was already awake and humming softly to herself when Grimbley awoke. The first thing he noticed was a throbbing ache in his head, an ache unlike anything he had felt since the time he was stepped on by a plump, stupid sheep. This, he was sure, was even worse.
The second thing he noticed was the smell of food. He looked around to find Cirena kneeling before a low fire, poking and prodding at something there with a long stick.
“Good morning, slugabed,” she said sweetly. “I would wager you are ready for breakfast.”
“No,” Grimbley groaned. “Gods, no. My belly is full of rats and my head feels like some troll has decided to use it for a war-drum.”
“But are you not hungry?”
“I might be, after I am more awake,” Grimbley conceded, “but in any case, I should not eat from the same cook who tried to poison me.”
“I did not know what sort of berries those were,” Cirena said defensively. “I am sorry, as I believe I have said already.”
“I would not know what you may have said,” Grimbley retorted, “since someone made me too drunk to remember.”
Cirena stood quickly. “There are eggs and a few strips of squirrel here, if you should change your mind.”
“What sort of eggs? Dragon eggs, to set my belly on fire and burn me up from the inside out?”
Cirena said no more. She turned instead and stormed into the forest.
Grim watched her go, wanting to call out something else hurtful and angry, but no words would come. His throbbing head left little room for coherent thought.
After a moment, he got to his feet—-a terribly slow process—-and moved to the fireside. There, on a flat rock, three small eggs and three strips of grayish, tough-looking meat were sizzling. He found a stick and retrieved the rock from the fire.
He studied the meal, deciding whether to take a chance on eating it. She had cooked supper the night before, after all, and it had been fine—-it was only the pie that had been a disaster.
Grimbley sighed and stood. The breakfast would need to cool before he could eat it, he rationalized, so why not just go after the silly, stupid wench?
With a last hungry glance at the eggs and meat, he turned and moved toward the forest, calling Cirena’s name. He trudged into the dense low growth at the woods’ edge and was startled by her sudden appearance.
“What?” She shouted. “Have you not had enough tormenting me?”
“I came to offer an apology.”
Cirena considered this for a moment. “What changed your heart?”
Grimbley shrugged. “The berries were only a mistake. I do not know anyone who makes no mistakes.”
She beamed broadly and held her hand out for Grim to take. He flushed and, pretending not to notice her offered hand, returned to his breakfast.
They had ridden only an hour, and already Rowan was perturbed. Eleven of the twenty cavalrymen had stopped and dismounted, racing for the forest in a desperate rush. From the brush, Rowan had heard more sounds of agony than he cared to think about. It served them right, but it had ground their progress nearly to a halt.
As they rode slowly, the cavalry leader suddenly reined his horse in, dismounting in a flash, and jogged toward the tree line.
“A shame,” Wendell said, shaking his head.
“Worse than a shame,” Rowan said, his jaw tight. “It’s a nuisance. I’ve half a mind to send them home to Gerald and leave it to them how best to explain it.”
“That would suit,” Wendell agreed. He turned to Rowan and offered him the best comforting smile he could manage with the few teeth he had remaining. “Take heart. This shall pass.”
“The next man caught with so much as a single staggerberry,” Rowan began, then trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.
“They’ll not want to see another for a year and a day, methinks,” Wendell replied, chuckling. Rowan couldn’t help himself; he began to laugh softly, too, and a mere moment later he found himself laughing out loud. The cavalrymen turned to him, and the puzzled expressions lining their pale, miserable faces made Rowan laugh all the harder. By the time the cavalry sergeant emerged from the forest, Rowan was having some difficulty staying in the saddle.
“Have we missed something, great one?” the sergeant asked.
But Rowan could not answer, as he was now clutching his belly and had laughed so hard that he had begun to cough and gasp for breath.
Wendell answered in his stead: “We ought to remember to thank good King Gerald for sending such a troupe of skilled fools to keep us amused.”
The cavalrymen glanced around from one to the other, surprised and a little stunned at the insult. Finally, the sergeant challenged Wendell. “See here, old man,” he said, his teeth clinched, “Make no further sport of me and my men, or I shall—“
“You shall do nothing,” Rowan interrupted. His laughter had dried and died away as suddenly as it had begun. “I am the one making sport, not the old man, and I cannot imagine anyone who deserves it more. You and your men have made fools of yourselves, and you are now paying a fair price.”
The cavalry sergeant stared at Rowan for a moment, unsure how to proceed. His anger was apparent, but he said no more; in the end, he lowered his head and mounted his horse. With a quick, unintelligible sound, he urged his mount ahead, and the rest of the cavalry followed.
“You would do well to remember,” Wendell said softly, “that you will want them loyal to you when we reach the mountains.”
“By the time we reach the mountains,” Rowan replied, “they shall be safely back inside the bounds of the Realm, stoking themselves on mead and telling lies about their great adventure.”
“Pardon?” Wendell asked in disbelief.
But Rowan said no more. He drove his bootheels into Gethsemane’s flanks and raced ahead of the slow-moving cavalry, leaving Wendell to wonder.
“We lost one of our own last evening.”
Gerald considered the words. The captain of Falcon Company had asked for an audience, and Gerald had suspected something unfavorable would be brought to light, but this was worse than he imagined. “Tell me what happened,” he said softly.
“Philip, a guard in my command, was killed. He was keeping watch in the tower when the dragon appeared. The tower shall have to be built over, as well.”
“Burned?”
“To cinders,” the captain replied. “As was poor Philip. And the young Bluck boy-—Lloyd, I believe, the blacksmith’s helper, was carried off.”
“Carried off? Gods, this is worse.”
“The villages are in an uproar, Majesty. People hide in their homes.”
“Of course they do,” the King spat back. “They wouldn’t wander out and hope to be next.” His brow furrowed as he contemplated what to do.
The captain swallowed hard. He had more to say, it was clear, but seemed afraid to say it.
“What is on your mind, Captain?” Gerald demanded.
“Well, Highness,” the guard stammered, “there is...talk.”
“What sort of talk? Spit it out, man!”
“Many...well, some...actually, many--”
“Is there an end to this story?”
“Many are saying,” the guard said reluctantly, “that you are to blame, for not having acted sooner.”
Gerald covered his eyes with his hand. “That accursed dragon,” he muttered.
The captain waited silently.
“Dispatch a messenger—-no, a dozen messengers. Have them ride to the villages and proclaim a state of emergency. No one save for the King’s own guard is to be out of doors after sunset. And remind the people that all that can be done is being done. Remind them that the great Rowan the Steadfast is on his way to put an end to this terror.”
“Yes, sire.”
“On your way out, have my servant call for a fool. No, make that three fools, and a cask of Kingswine. I shall grant no more audience this day.”
The captain bowed and left quickly.
Grimbley decided that the delightful breakfast more than made up for the horrid effects of the previous night’s dessert.
He gobbled the three eggs, pausing only briefly to wonder what sort of bird had laid them, and then chewed the few strips of meat. It was a trifle tough, with a leathery texture, but its flavor was without compare.
“How is this meat seasoned?”
“Mint leaves,” Cirena answered, smiling. “I found a few at the edge of the forest. I even rolled up some to chew while we ride.”
Grimbley smiled.
“I wonder,” Cirena ventured, “how you propose to catch Rowan and his party. If he is riding with a cavalry detachment, surely they are myels ahead by now.”
Grimbley shrugged. “I should hope to ride faster.”
“What if you cannot find him? What happens if you do not join his party?”
“I will find them,” Grimbley said confidently. “The Gods have deemed it my duty.”
Cirena said nothing, but her face showed doubt. “Just suppose--”
“If I return home only knowing that I tried, it should be enough.”
“You feel that you must try, at the very least,” Cirena said.
Grimbley nodded. “I have made this mess.”
Cirena changed the subject then, and they might light conversation while Grim finished up his breakfast and gathered his things.
“What did you do before you decided to ride out in search of Rowan?”
“I tend sheep,” he answered simply.
“A waste of a brave young man,” she observed.
Grim felt his face going red. “I am not brave.”
They mounted the horse and set out again, following the path in the clearing. As they rode, a red-tailed hawk joined them on the trail, moving from tree to tree as if following them.
“So,” Grimbley said, unwilling to discuss his bravery any further, “why do you not return to your uncle’s barony?”
Now it was Cirena’s turn to be uneasy. She did not answer, at first, but instead seemed to contemplate the question.
“Did something happen to you?” Grimbley ventured.
“No,” she answered at last. “I defied the law. My uncle would not have me back.”
Grim stared at her, shocked. “You are an outcast? An outlaw? Gods, why did you not say so before?”
“Would you have let me ride with you?”
“Of course not!” Grim answered, then paused.
“Do you now regret that I have come along?” Cirena asked.
Grim considered for a moment. “No,” he said at last.
“Then you can see why I did not speak of my crimes.”
“What terrible thing have you done, then?”
“I never said I did anything terrible,” she said defensively. “I said I defied the law.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Most certainly.”
“Do tell,” Grimbley said sourly.
“I stole from the larders of the barony itself. I took the food stores, and I liberated great handfuls of coin from the treasury.”
“A thief!”
“Silly boy,” she chided, “the treasury was filled with taxes and tribute, squeezed from the poor. I felt they should have it back.”
“Still, you stole—-wait, what do you mean, ‘have it back’?”
“I took the money and the food stores. I was caught standing atop a horse-cart in the village square, handing out fruit and treasure to the peasants.”
“Daft,” Grimbley said simply. “Could you not have kept it a secret?”
“My sin was pride,” she admitted. “I wanted everyone to know what I was doing.”
Grimbley shook his head soberly. He watched the hawk in the nearby trees, which seemed to be watching him just as intently.
“I suppose it was not completely unselfish,” Cirena admitted. “I adored being adored. It was my downfall.”
“No one is perfect,” Grimbley replied. “How much did you keep for yourself?”
“Not a single coin,” she answered. “I had all that I needed. I must confess, however, that I ate a great many strawberries. I am weak where strawberries are concerned.”
Grimbley laughed. “The Great Strawberry Thief,” he announced. “I should think you will remain in chains for a great long time, if you are caught. And all for a few strawberries and a moment of glory.”
“No,” Cirena protested. “It was for the good of the poor that I did those things.”
Grimbley nodded, conceding. “Then your time in the dungeons would be easy. Your heart would not be heavy with guilt.”
“There is no chain made that would weigh easy on me. I must remain free, or die.”
Grimbley considered this for a moment. “I should try to find an in-between, if I were you," he said at last.
“How far is the swamp now?” Rowan asked.
Wendell studied his map. “If I am not wrong about where we are now,” he answered, “we should be within a few leagues.”
Rowan looked questioningly at the old man.
Wendell rolled his eyes. “Curse Gerald and his disregard for the old ways,” he said. “I suspect we are within a few myels of the swamp,” he finished, clearly disgusted.
“The myel is much simpler to calculate than the league,” Rowan said.
“Pish. The myel is utter codswallop.”
Rowan smiled. “Spoken like an old man set in his ways.”
“It will never catch on,” Wendell persisted.
“The world is changing,” Rowan warned. “You would do yourself a service to change, as well.”
“I should rather die in my sleep.”
They rode in relative silence for a while. The cavalry seemed to have got past the effects of the previous night’s berries, and although they were clearly uncomfortable in their saddles, none had dismounted and sprinted for the forest in nearly an hour.
“How do you intend to defeat the Wellingo?” Wendell asked.
“I do not intend to defeat them,” Rowan said simply. “I hope to avoid them altogether.”
“Won’t be easy,” the old man warned. “If we are ambushed, what then?”
“Then we flee, and if we cannot flee, we fight.”
“You would flee?”
“Certainly it would be better to run away than to die.”
“Odd words for a soldier and a hero,” Wendell observed.
Rowan did not reply, but instead urged his horse on, outpacing the old man and his mule.
Wendell watched as Rowan pulled ahead and away. “Odd words indeed,” he reflected.
Grimbley and Cirena spoke little as they rode. They day was warm, but with the hint of the chill winter that would encroach soon—-even sooner than usual, Grim suspected, as they were riding northward into the shadow of the mountains.
Grimbley’s focus was on the hawk. It had shadowed them for quite some time, through the noon hour, neither very close nor very far. It seemed quite intent on their business, cocking its head this way and that and watching as they rode. The great bird would pause on a low branch, head turned slightly, eyeing Grim and his companion keenly as they slowly passed, then swoop down and soar to another low branch, beginning the cycle again.
“Do you suppose that bird is waiting for us to die, so that it can eat us?” He wondered aloud. “I have heard of birds--”
“No,” Cirena said matter-of-factly. “There are birds that eat only the things that are already dead, but this is a hawk. Hawks prefer to kill their own meals.”
“I know what a hawk is,” Grim protested.
“And have no fear,” Cirena continued, smiling wryly, “you and I are far too big for a hawk to kill us both.”
Grimbley shook his head. “Sometimes you are impossible.”
“My best quality, I should think,” she mused.
“Who would you boast to about that?”
The hawk leapt suddenly from its perch then, diving this time toward the horse and its riders rather than following the treeline.
“Look out!” Grimbley shouted. His mount reared, and Cirena had to clutch Grim’s chest tightly to keep from being thrown. The hawk passed bare inches in front of them, then disappeared into the forest. Grim got control of his horse again, then turned to see where the hawk had gone, but the great bird had left no sign. Where it had gone was anyone’s guess, but it was indeed gone.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Cirena answered breathlessly. “Startled, but not hurt.”
Grimbley urged the horse on again, wanting to put as much distance as possible between them and the place where the hawk had gone, just in case it decided to return.
“That is not the normal way for a hawk to behave,” Cirena observed. Grimbley, who had only seen hawks at a great distance and knew nothing of their ways, only nodded.
“I wonder what sort of hawk that was,” Cirena persisted, “to come so close to man and horse. Perhaps he was the servant of something evil, someone who--”
“Nonsense,” Grimbley interrupted, a little too hastily. “It was crazed, perhaps. The moon is near full, after all.” He tried to hide his nervousness, but failed.
“Still, it was passing strange.” Cirena went on. “I fear it means something.”
“If we keep moving, it will make no difference,” Grimbley said at last, and spurred his mount to a fast trot.
“There,” Wendell said sharply, pointing a long, crooked finger to a point beyond a clearing in the trail ahead.
Rowan followed the old man’s finger and saw a faint, bluish mist, low to the ground amidst the thick oaks. “The swamp?”
Wendell nodded, his wide-eyed expression childlike despite the deep lines of age in his face. “There be the swamp.”
“Very well, then,” Rowan said, drawing himself up tall in the saddle. He reined in his mount, turning to the right until he sat perpendicular to the trail. He faced the cavalry, who brought their horses to rein and waited for their leader to speak.
“Brave and true men of King Gerald’s Cavalry,” Rowan began, his voice booming and low and echoing in the stillness of the forest. The cavalrymen and their horses moved about uncertainly.
“It is here,” Rowan continued, “that we must part company.”
The horsemen exchanged confused glances and whispers and mutterings for a moment, then gave their attention back to Rowan.
“It is a brave man indeed who rides into the face of death,” Rowan boomed, “and a man who would stand his ground on such a perilous quest should be honored until the time of his grandchildren’s grandchildren.
“But I cannot allow you to go on. The King would have you ride with me, and he will not be pleased by my decision, but he has given me full command of this company, so it is my decision to make. I bid you all farewell. Have a safe journey, and inform the people of the Realm that the dragon’s days are numbered.”
The cavalrymen stared in puzzled silence. After an indefinite moment, the sergeant spoke up in protest:
“We are ordered by King Gerald himself to accompany you, Rowan. Surely it would mean our heads. We cannot disband until the deed is finished.”
“Disband we can, and disband we shall,” Rowan insisted. “Gerald’s order to you was to follow me and to obey my command. It is my wish that you return to your homes, to your families, to the defense of the Realm. This is a duty that I must face alone.”
All the while Rowan spoke, Wendell sat silent, his knees locked around his mule’s plump waist, watching Rowan and waiting. He suspected that Rowan intended to go on alone, and leave even Wendell to return with the cavalry. He held some hope, however; Rowan had, as yet, said nothing on the subject.
“What of the old man?” the sergeant asked.
“Be still, besotted drunkard son of a she-dog!” Wendell shouted. His voice was thin and reedy, like a petulant child, and spittle flew from his lips.
“Wendell is to return to the villages, as well,” Rowan explained.
But Wendell would not hear of it. “I am not here under orders from any king, Rowan the Pompous, and as long as the land remains free, I shall ride where I shall ride.”
“Stubborn old man,” Rowan argued, “it is for your own safety--”
“Safety be damned, and may the demons take your orders!” Wendell spat back. He drew his mule close to Rowan’s horse in a gesture of defiance. The short-legged, sway-backed mule and its wrinkled, grizzled rider looked more comical than defiant, pressed against tall, stout Rowan and his white thoroughbred. Wendell seemed not to realize how silly he looked; he pressed his mule forward against Rowan’s mount, his eyes locked on the much younger man’s. “I am not subject to your orders. The cavalry must look to you to see where to squat and lean, and if you say they must go, then I wish them the wind at their backs. But I am not in your command. I shall ride behind you, if you’ll not have me with you, but I intend to ride on, either this way or t’other.”
Rowan shook his head in stunned amazement.
“I mean what I say, Rowan the Thickheaded,” Wendell went on. “I have given my life to the study of dragons. I have penned the great book on the subject of dragon. Now the time has come to see one, and I will not let this chance pass.”
“Very well, then, you headstrong old whoremaster,” Rowan relented. “You may ride with me. I only hope that ragged stump of a jackass can keep pace. Hey!”
Gethsemane bolted, kicking up great clouds of dust as she went. The cavalry watched in stunned silence as the old man urged his mule to follow, its short legs scissoring spastically. Wendell’s hat bobbed and flopped as the mule traced a jittering, awkward path in Rowan’s wake.
“Rowan, you pompous ass!” Wendell shouted, “Me an’ Eleanor will run a circle around your grave!”
Grimbley, although no expert at timekeeping, guessed that it was just past Three O’ the Clock when they met the riders on the path.
Cirena clutched his waist tightly and buried her face in his shoulder, and he could feel her trembling lightly in the saddle behind him.
“Hail!” Grimbley shouted in greeting.
“Hail!” The cavalry sergeant called back. The mounted soldiers continued forward, clearly unconcerned with the young boy and the slightly old boy with whom he rode.
As the cavalry company passed, Grimbley could hear muttered words among the men, and one particular snatch of conversation caught his attention:
“I hope the dragon fries him,” one soldier said broodingly.
“Would serve him, the arrogant pig.”
“He went on alone for the greater share of the glory,” one ventured. “I would bet my life.”
Grimbley reined in his mount. The horsemen had passed now, and he turned to face them. “Hail!” he shouted again. Cirena drove an elbow into his ribs.
The cavalry sergeant stopped his horse and addressed Grimbley. “What is it, lad? Quickly, for we have pressing business.”
“I could not help but to overhear the mention of a dragon,” Grimbley ventured.
The sergeant huffed. “Indeed. What of it?”
“Are you by chance the men of Rowan’s company?”
“We are no more. Rowan the Lunatic has turned us back to the Realm and gone on alone, with only a horse and two donkeys.”
Grimbley did not understand the brief laughter that followed, but dismissed it. “How far is Rowan?” he demanded.
“Two myels, at most,” the sergeant answered, but before he could begin to question the boy’s interest in Rowan, the horse and its two riders were moving again, throwing dust in great rooster-tails.
Grim raced down the trail, urging his horse along despite its tired reluctance.
“Slow down!” Cirena shouted. “We’ll be thrown!”
“We can catch Rowan by sunset!” Grim insisted.
“Not if we are in the dirt with our backs broken!”
Grimbley Goode paid no heed. The girl was older, and perhaps smarter, but he held no doubts as to who was in command of the expedition, at least not in this moment. He was eager, exhilarated, anxious to bend his knee before the greatest warrior in the history of the Realm, and to join him in his noble duty.
“For the sake of the Gods, get up!” Rowan demanded.
Grimbley and Cirena stood uncertainly.
“Who are you, and why do you come to me?”
Grimbley stepped forward. “Great Rowan,” Grimbley said, his head lowered, “I am but a humble shepherd. My name is Grimbley Goode, and it was I who caused you to be here on this journey. I spoke to the King--”
“You’re the lad from the square, then,” Wendell ventured. “The boy who made a stand before Gerald and Vera and demanded the dragon be slain.”
Grim nodded slowly.
“Why have you come here?” Rowan asked, sickly certain that he already knew the answer.
“I have come to aid you in your journey,” Grimbley said softly.
In all of his visions of how his meeting with the great Rowan the Steadfast might go, Grimbley had not foreseen what came next. He had imagined a kind rejection, or perhaps even a heartfelt welcome.
He was completely unprepared for laughter.
It was not just laughter, not the hearty chuckle one might offer to a half-witted joke. It was loud, braying, coughing laughter that sounded like cannon-fire to Grimbley’s ears.
“How, pray tell me, would you be of any use?” Rowan asked, struggling to get the words out. “You are too small even to bear my sword!”
Grim said nothing. He turned and started to climb onto his horse.
Wendell prodded Rowan. “You’ve dashed his poor heart,” the old man said. “You could have turned him away without all of this.”
Rowan dismissed Wendell with a wave of his hand, still laughing too hard to speak clearly.
As Grimbley took hold and prepared to hoist himself into the saddle, he felt a firm hand on his upper arm. He turned to see Cirena there, and the look in her eyes startled him. “Wait,” she whispered.
She let loose her grip on his arm and strode to where Rowan sat on his horse. She clicked her tongue and stroked the horse’s wide, white muzzle as she passed, then balled her right hand into a fist and thrust it into the soft place below Rowan’s left knee.
“Ow!” Rowan shouted.
“Hero, indeed!” Cirena shouted. “Brave, perhaps, but there is far more to being a hero than a sword sticky with blood!”
“See here,” Rowan began, but Cirena would give no ground. “This boy stood before King Gerald and all of his village! He risked having his head on the block, and all so that he and his widowed mother could keep their sheep alive, and thereby keep themselves fed. That, to my mind, is bravery. That alone is more than I can say for the cavalry you dismissed—-they would not even stand their ground against you, Rowan the Heartless, a shadow of his former self!”
“I dismissed the cavalry with good reason,” Rowan explained. “It is my aim to go on alone, that no one else need suffer or perish in the dispatch of my duty.”
Cirena made a horribly unladylike sound with her lips and tongue, and showed Rowan both of her little fingers. Wendell’s eyes grew large in their sockets. He had never seen a woman give anyone the fingers.
“Young girl-child,” Rowan began, then yelped in pain as she landed another knuckle-punch below his left knee.
“I am no child!” she shouted vehemently. “And Grimbley Goode is no child, either, not by the measure of his merits. If anyone in all the land is worthy to ride with you, it is he.”
“Be still!” Rowan demanded.
Cirena did not seem to know how. “No,” she spat back. “You be still, you overbearing wart on a pig’s flanks! I am not finished here by a long step, and I will be heard.”
All through Cirena’s tirade, Grimbley had been hard at work trying to recover the use of his jaw. It had dropped when she first walloped Rowan’s knee and had not shown any sign of returning to its proper place.
Wendell, in the meantime, had begun to snicker softly to himself. Rowan found it irritating and distracting, and promised himself to curse the old man twice before bedtime.
“Grimbley has come to find you out of a sense of duty,” Cirena went on. “You do understand duty, do you not? You, the great soldier?”
There was a hint of sarcasm in Cirena’s voice that Grimbley could make no sense of. Rowan was a great soldier, and of course he understood the meaning of duty. Grim wondered what the girl was trying to imply.
“Be still and listen, foul woman!” Rowan bellowed, and the entire forest fell silent. Even the crickets, rehearsing their song for the evening, put away their instruments for a moment.
“I shall allow him to camp with us at the fringe of the swamp,” Rowan said gently. “It shall serve as a just reward for his courage in coming here. On the morrow, I shall have to insist that the two of you go about your way.”
“Fine, then,” Cirena said. “We shall discuss it further after breakfast.”
“I said nothing about further discussion.”
But Cirena said no more. She turned and joined Grimbley, who was tying his horse to a tree.
“Once he has sampled my cooking,” Cirena whispered, “he shall surely think twice about dismissing us.”
The four of them set up camp, unrolling their blankets and watering their horses. Rowan pushed a few stones into a rough circle, and Cirena began gathering wood with which to build a fire.
None of them noticed the hawk, on a branch a few paces back down the trail, settling in and making a camp of its own.
The night seemed blacker than any in memory. The people in the village of Ianton, very near the walls of the castle keep, had gone into their homes at dusk, in accordance with the King’s latest proclamation. Some peered through door-blankets and peeked through their small windows. The smallest children clung to their mothers, feeding off their fear and making it their own, while older children shored each other up with false bravado and vowed to make a stand against the dragon, should it dare to appear in their presence. Fathers admonished their boys that bravery and foolishness were planted in the same row in the garden, and warned that it would not do to confuse the two.
Guardsmen stood their watches in the towers, no longer lax as they had been since the Great War had drawn to a close. They stood with bows at the ready, arrows nocked, and makeshift walls placed in the openings of their towers. They peered through small eye-slits in these new walls, keeping a vigilant eye in all directions. Mostly, they watched the sky to the north.
It was in this way that the dragon took the village of Ianton by complete surprise.
With their eyes and minds focused on the northern sky, none in the realm stood ready against a foe that came from the south.
The dragon fell from the black sky like a thunderclap, offering only the thump of its wings against the still air as a warning. Before anyone could act, a guard post at the edge of Ianton was reduced to cinders.
Bowmen from the surrounding towers threw open the armor-doors and let fly their arrows. Sharpened steel nicked the hard, hoary scales of the dragon’s hide, glancing off and falling to earth to be collected the next day by curious boys. One arrow found an opening and sank deep into the left foreleg, and the great beast howled in rage and agony. The dragon wheeled about in the air and thrust itself forward, crashing its right shoulder into the support beam at the base of the tower from which the offending arrow had flown. Its mighty wings thundered as it rose skyward once more, and in its wake, the tower leaned slowly against its crippled side. The remaining beams groaned in protest under the strain of the added weight, then gave way altogether, bringing the tower and its occupants to the earth with a thunderous, screaming crash.
The dragon wheeled again, diving straight and true toward the fallen tower. Even as the bowmen struggled to free themselves from the mangled mess of wood, the dragon opened its jaws and let loose a great glut of yellow-orange flame. The remains of the tower were set alight at once, and the two injured warriors inside were forever released from the pain of their wounds.
Guards in the remaining towers feared that they would be next, but the dragon clearly had other intentions. It turned high in the air, its wings almost at right angles to the ground, and set course for the center of the village of Ianton. With an unearthly roar, the monster laid its wings back against its body and fell like a bomb.
The dragon leveled off just above the rooftops, unmindful of the arrows striking on all sides, and belched a great, long jet of flame across the thatched roofs of a clustered group of perhaps a dozen hovels.
Now the dragon was in the spotlight of the growing, glowing inferno as it once again climbed into the night. It shrieked then, a sound that brought gooseflesh to every man, woman, and child within earshot, and disappeared once more into the night.
In the days when dragons were not so rare, many men could have told the difference between a raiding dragon and a warring one. A raiding dragon takes what it needs with indifference, as Fireblood had done in Lorad, stealing enough sheep to keep its belly satisfied. On the night of the attack on Ianton, the great beast had taken nothing. The dragon had come to war against the Realm, and those few who noticed the difference could not make sense of the change in behavior. They found themselves wishing for the counsel of Wendell, who would surely have an explanation.
Wendell, now far away, would have been of little use, had he known of the recent attacks. There was no apparent explanation; in all of history, a dragon’s choosing to go to war against men was usually in response to a looting of their treasures, or an affront against their nests and their kin. Even the defensive arrows which Fireblood had suffered during the recent attacks would not bring her to war, normally; arrows were, to a dragon, simply a part of life.
Whatever had brought the great dragon to leave off the sheep and turn instead to the slaying of men, it must have been something of significance; but for all their efforts, the men and women of the Realm could not conjure an answer.
Comments and criticism are greatly appreciated!
©2004 James Clark
9/10/2004 4:02:57 PM
Comment on this fan fiction!
|
|
|
