The Fiery Aftermath

by L. R. Patton

  And now he is left to deliver the news to the castle. He does not want to deliver it to the soldiers’ wives. Oh, no. They have lost so much already.

  But let us see what this good man does. He walks from the woods. He stops at a house. He puts his hand on a door. He waits. Should he go in? Should he continue on?

  He enters.

  His mother is lying on a bed. She raises herself when he comes in. “My son,” she says, for she knows him immediately, though he wears his helmet. This is the way mothers know their sons, you see.

  “Mother,” he says, and he falls into her arms. He weeps as he has never wept before, though his face plate keeps all but the sound of his weeping from his mother.

  “Oh, child,” his mother says, though he is no longer a child. Perhaps men are always children to their mothers. “What is it?”

  “My men, Mother,” he says. “All of them are gone.”

  “Gone, my son?” his mother says. “Whatever could you mean?” for this woman does not know the news of the kingdom without her son. She only knows that her son has not come for several days, has not delivered her medicine, which ran out the first day Sir Greyson and his men entered the woods, and she can feel the sickness spreading into her legs. She is glad he is here now. He can give her the medicine that will stave off her pain, and she might rise from her bed again.

  “My men,” he says. “Burned up by dragons.” His eyes fill with tears once more. He has removed his helmet, so his mother is witness to his pain. His mother pats his back, trying not to cry, too. She is a compassionate woman, you see. She cannot bear to see her boy cry, for it tears at something in her heart, too. She is a mother who wants to make it better, but there is no way of making a tragedy such as this one better. She does not ask questions. She merely listens. She merely holds him and waits.

  “The king,” her son says. “The king wanted so badly to find the missing children. And we did. They were with the dragons.”

  She puts the pieces together, for she is a wise woman. She knows that the children must have been with the dragons and her son’s men must have crossed the border and then all madness must have broken loose, as it would with a treaty broken and dangerous dragons. She had never trusted the dragons, even back when the people of Fairendale used them for their travels. They were too powerful, she always thought. She mistrusted their intentions.

  “And what of the children?” Sir Greyson’s mother says.

  Sir Greyson shakes his head. “I do not know what became of them,” he says. “They might be dead.”

  “Perhaps you should tell the king all this,” his mother says.

  “I was on my way,” Sir Greyson says. “But I have not seen you in so long.” He pulls away from his mother now. He peers into her face. “I have been gone for some time. You need your medicine.”

  “Yes,” his mother says. Her eyes laugh a little. “Yes, I do.”

  He pulls a vial of medicine from his pocket and shakes it rhythmically, drops it into the space inside a needle and then inserts the needle into his mother’s leg. “I am sorry, Mother,” he says.

  “For what, my son?” she says.

  “For neglecting you,” he says. “I got here as quickly as I could.”

  “I know you did,” she says.

  Sir Greyson bends over her and kisses her forehead. “I shall return soon,” he says.

  She watches him go, knowing it may be quite some time before she sees him again. The king is not a gracious man, and when her son tells him this story, he could very well imprison Sir Greyson or send him away without honors. There is no way of knowing what it is the king might do.

  She will soon be gone. And then her son can make a life of his own, instead of working for a man as cruel as King Willis and doing what he knows to be wrong. She only hopes that she will not leave this world too late.

  SIR Greyson walks up the path with a slow step, a bent over back and the weight of death on his shoulders. He passes the mermaids who call to him and knocks on the large oak door of the castle with the brass bear placed there for such a purpose. A servant opens the door. His mouth drops open, as if he is surprised to see a soldier standing at the door. He opens it wider, and Sir Greyson steps inside.

  “I will let the king know you are here, sir,” the servant says and scuttles off toward the king’s throne room. Sir Greyson takes his time, trying to figure out just how much he is going to say. If he indicates that all the children are dead, perhaps he will be released to return home to his mother. But that would be defying his honor, for, of course, he does not know for sure whether they are dead or alive. He only knows that he saw dragons, that all of his men are dead and that the children disappeared. For all he knows the dragons might have taken them back to a hiding place where they shall remain safe for all the rest of the king’s days.

  Hope flutters in his chest.

  So what is it that he will tell the king?

  Well, he has no more time, for the throne room doors are opened at this very moment, and he steps onto the red carpet, with only the distance between the doors and the throne to find his words.

  The king waits until Sir Greyson is halfway into the room to speak. “So,” he says. “So you have come back to us. This is quite unexpected.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Sir Greyson says. He is still walking. He notices that the king’s son is standing just beside the throne. The prince’s hair and face seem darker than Sir Greyson remembers. Darker enough to look at the prince twice, in quick succession, as if it is a completely different boy who stands before him as a prince. But no. The face is the same. Only more sinister. Sir Greyson swallows hard. He had hoped that Prince Virgil might break the reign of evil in Fairendale. But seeing that boy, seeing the change, has told him otherwise.

  He hopes all the harder that the children live still.

  “Tell me,” the king says. “Tell me what you know of the children.”

  Sir Greyson feels the contempt for his king strike him hard and fast between the shoulders. King Willis, you see, did not even ask about the welfare of Sir Greyson’s men. A king who cares not for how many soldiers gave their lives so they might carry out his commands. A king who thinks only of himself and a throne and securing it for generations to come. What does a kingdom do with a king like this one?

  If Sir Greyson carried dislike for his king before, it turns, quite rapidly, to hate, though Sir Greyson has never been able to hold hate as others might.

  Prince Virgil tilts his head and narrows his eyes, as if he can see what lies behind the look on Sir Greyson’s face. And perhaps he can. Sir Greyson was never one for hiding what he felt. Which is precisely why he wears a helmet in the presence of the king. But, if you remember, Sir Greyson removed his helmet at his mother’s house. It is, unfortunately, still there, on the table beside her bed.

  Sir Greyson takes a deep breath. “I know not what happened to the children,” he says. He tries quite hard to keep the contempt from burdening his words.

  The king roars, his eyes turning from curious to angry in only a matter of seconds. “What do you mean you do not know? How could you not know what happened to the children when you had them in your hands?”

  “With all due respect, sire,” Sir Greyson says. “We did not have them in our hands. We followed them to the dragon lands, but we did not touch them.”

  “Did not touch them,” King Willis says. “Tell me, what is the difference? You had them within your sight, did you not?”

  “Yes, sire,” Sir Greyson says.

  “And what is the difference between seeing them and seizing them, when you are hundreds and they are only a few?” King Willis says. He is pacing the platform where his throne sits.

  It does not take the most brilliant of minds to know that seeing children in the middle of Morad and seizing children in the middle of Morad are two very different things, with many, many steps between. But Sir Greyson merely humors his king. “They stood with dragons, sire,” he says. “I did not want to place my
men in danger.”

  “And yet your men died,” King Willis says. His eyes turn upon Sir Greyson, with darkness that cannot be contained. “They died, and you have nothing to show for their sacrifice.”

  Sir Greyson feels the sadness brimming toward his mouth. He swallows it down and blinks hard. “Yes, sire,” he says. His voice is thick. He does not say more. He does not need to say more.

  “The dragons,” King Willis says now, satisfied that his words of attack have hit their mark. “They defied their treaty.” He folds his hands together and brings them to his lips. When he takes them away, he says. “What shall we do about that?”

  Sir Greyson shakes his head. “No, sire,” he says. “They did not defy their treaty.”

  “They did not?” King Willis says, this time surprised by what Sir Greyson has to say. “Then, tell me, what happened?”

  “One of my men,” Sir Greyson says, but he cannot finish, for he can only see their bodies, lying on the ground he fled. “I am sorry,” he says, but it is too soft for Prince Virgil or King Willis to hear.

  “What is it you say?” King Willis says.

  Sir Greyson clears his throat. “One of my men crossed the border. He tried to take the children. The rest of my men followed in the confusion. The dragons were only defending their own territory.”

  “So we defied the treaty,” King Willis says, and, for the first time since Sir Greyson entered the room, King Willis looks frightened. “That means...” But he does not finish now.

  Sir Greyson is not thinking of what it means. He is only thinking of his men. “I lost them all,” he says. “Every one of my men.”

  King Willis looks toward his captain of the king’s guard. “You lost every man?”

  “Yes, sire,” Sir Greyson says.

  “No man but you lives?” King Willis says, as if this is too unbelievable for even a man like him.

  “No man,” Sir Greyson says.

  “And how many men was it you lost?” King Willis says.

  “Two hundred nine, sire,” Sir Greyson says. He chokes on the number. It is a number far too great for him. It is a number far too great for Death and sorrow and loss and one man.

  “You must prepare more men,” King Willis says. “The dragons will come. They will want war. We must be ready.”

  “But I have no more men,” Sir Greyson says. “I have used every man this kingdom had.”

  “You shall gather more,” King Willis says. “Lincastle is a good place to start.”

  “But sire,” Sir Greyson says, but the king holds up a hand.

  “You shall gather more,” King Willis says. “You shall leave immediately.”

  Poor Sir Greyson. He has only just seen his mother, after many long days of leaving her to her sickness. What will he tell her now?

  The thought of his mother makes Sir Greyson brave. “Might I ask for a bit of leave, sire?” Sir Greyson says. He does not say more, though the look on his face says there is much more. Perhaps we might surmise what it is on his mind. Perhaps he would like leave to care for his mother. Perhaps he would like leave for the exhaustion that buckles his knees even now, clanking them against the armor that is the only reason he remains standing. Perhaps he would like leave because he was the only one of two hundred nine men who survived the fire of the dragons.

  The king releases a long, bellowing laugh. “You are in jest, my good man,” he says. “Leave at a time such as this.”

  Sir Greyson merely stares at him, for he was not, in fact, jesting. He does not say more, though, for he knows there is no arguing with a king like this one. He will have to prepare, alone, for immediate departure. His eyes feel heavy just thinking of it. Lincastle is a week’s journey at least, more when one is as indisposed and weary as Sir Greyson.

  Perhaps he could desert. Perhaps he could take his mother with him and be gone from this land, far away from where the king might find him. Perhaps he could take her to Guardia, or to the wastelands of Ashvale. Surely it was habitable now. It has been many years since the last fire mountain exploded.

  No. Of course he cannot desert. He is a man of honor, after all. And where might he get his mother’s medicine, if not from the king?

  Sir Greyon risks one more plea. “Please, sire, allow me to tend my mother before I go,” he says. He watches the prince look at the king. The prince’s eyes are soft, now the color of the dirt in the village garden, rather than a midnight sky. Is that compassion we see? Why, yes, dear reader. It is.

  But the king roars. He is angry. He is annoyed. He has had absolutely enough. “There is not a moment to lose,” he says. “You shall go now.”

  The throne room doors fling open, as if they were waiting for this dismissal all along. Sir Greyson turns toward them, takes one step, two, and falls to his knees.

  “Father,” he hears the prince say.

  “Get up,” the king says.

  “Father, he is not well,” the prince says.

  “Get up!” the king roars. And Sir Greyson tries, he does, but it is all too much—the despair, the weariness, the hopelessness of it all. The prince moves to his side and wraps his arms around the captain’s armored belly. He pulls Sir Greyson to his feet. Sir Greyson turns to thank the boy, and the eyes startle him, more like wet earth with tiny flecks of gold in them. Prince Virgil nods at Sir Greyson. The prince’s eyes fill, and he turns away.

  And this, one small little gesture by a boy, gives Sir Greyson a strength that rises up within him and pulls him out the doors. It is only when he stumbles through the entrance of the castle that he looks down at his hand to see what is held within it.

  A vial. Medicine.

  His mother will not die while he is away.

  Dear, sweet Prince Virgil.

  Sir Greyson squeezes the vial in his hand and somehow, in spite of his faltering knees, runs back to the village.

  Father

  THEY lost many in the Great Battle. Many of them were elder dragons, who knew how to properly lead the dragons in the land of Morad. Many of the dragon families were left with only one mate to raise their children, or none at all.

  There was a dragon, a very young one of only twenty-one years, just a baby, really, who had lost both father and mother in the Great Battle. His mother had been sister to Zorag’s mother, and Zorag knew that he would have to raise him as his own, though he himself was young as well.

  The young dragon, Blindell, was known to be an impetuous one, who preferred danger over safety. Zorag had seen Blindell cross into the woods, even, and had warned him multiple times in the last few days alone to stay far away from the land of Fairendale. He would risk the lives of all the dragons.

  But Blindell had simply said, “They could never kill me,” as if he, alone, were impenetrable. And it is true that he was a Fury, that he was a revered dragon among the dragons, for Furies were known to spike men faster than men could draw a sword. But he was a young dragon. He had not been trained in fighting, for the land of Morad was, until the new king marched on it, a peaceful land.

  Blindell showed a fierce madness already, as if he were a dragon bred for battle. His father had been a foreigner to the lands of Morad, come from a distant land that might have been savage. Zorag’s uncle had not spoken much of his homeland. They did not know anything about him at all. And now he had left his son, reckless and powerful. Truth be told, Zorag was a bit afraid of the young dragon, though he tried his best not to show it.

  In the days after the Great Battle, Zorag stayed away from his cousin, too wrapped up in his own grief to notice the grief of others, though he was now the leader of the land.

  And then, one day, Zorag spoke to Blindell, for he felt the time had come.

  “Blindell,” he said. His cousin’s eyes found his. They were red, with flecks of brown and black in them. They were the kind of eyes meant to scare a man.

  “Cousin,” Blindell said.

  “Come,” Zorag said. “Fly with me.” He took to the sky. Blindell followed. Zorag led the way to
a distant mountain. The two dragons landed together on the top.

  “What is it, cousin?” Blindell said. “I know there is something. You have not spoken to me in all these days, except to warn me away from the boundary line.” Blindell’s eyes flashed and sparked.

  “Yes,” Zorag said. “I suppose I have been caught up in running Morad.”

  In truth, Zorag had not been caught up in running Morad, for he had been doing nothing at all. Grief, you see, takes time to fade.

  “I suppose,” Blindell said. He looked off in the distance, his eyes ever turned toward Fairendale.

  “You need a father,” Zorag said. “Yours died bravely, but it is time for you to take another.”

  “And who might that be?” Blindell said. His voice was a low rumble, as if he held back an anger that could consume him in a moment. “YOU?” His eyes narrowed, the black in them deepening.

  “Yes,” Zorag said quietly. “Me.”

  Blindell was silent for a moment, looking off toward the land and the forest and the faint outline of the castle. “They should have to pay for what they did,” he said.

  “We have promised peace,” Zorag said. “And we shall keep it.”

  “It is a coward’s way,” Blindell said.

  “No,” Zorag said. “It is brave to keep peace when so much has been lost.”

  “You are a fool,” Blindell said.

  Zorag growled. “Peace is what King Brendon would have wanted,” he said. “He would not have wanted to risk the lives of the dragons.”

  “They killed our parents,” Blindell said. “Does that not bother you?” Zorag did not say anything, so Blindell continued. “They damaged your wing. You cannot even fly properly anymore.”

  Zorag eyed his bent wing. He had not even known that he had carried this wound during the Great Battle. It was only when he returned to Morad with the new king’s message that he felt its pain at all.

  “It will heal in time,” Zorag said.

  Blindell let out a roar that shook the mountain. “It will not heal in time,” he said. “Nothing will heal in time.”