One Cannot Deny a Blood Oath with a Dragon

by T P Sheehan

  “I have your answer now, boy. I will send your head in a bag of pig manure to your father. It will come with a message.” The old man leaned over Magnus and spat at him. “The message will declare your head fit payment for his years in the knighthood and he will understand his son’s death is of his own doing.”

  Magnus felt the cold steel of the blade rest upon his neck. He closed his eyes, shaking with fear, and waited for the inevitable. In a brief moment, he thought of the broken promise he made to Lucas, for he would not return for him as he said he would. He thought of Catanya, who promised him they would be together again. How can it end this way? He held his breath and waited for the end. But then Magnus heard a familiar voice speak from the far end of the room.

  “Your message would be for nothing, Trager. His father is not there.”

  Magnus turned his head to the source of the voice only to be kicked in the ribs and pushed down again.

  “What?” the old man questioned. Magnus felt the blade lift from his neck.

  “His father has been captured… and his mother for that matter. Not four days ago by my men.”

  Magnus was dragged back up to his feet where he could see the source of the familiar voice. It was Crugion, standing with Briet and two other Quagmen.

  “Is that so?” the old man named Trager asked.

  “Yes, they’re alive—for the time being,” Crugion looked at Magnus. “They’ve been taken south with many other slaves. Soon they’ll arrive at the coast, where I am sure my father holds a special role for Bonstaph within the walls of Ba’rrat. It is here they will be weighed and measured.”

  Trager let the sword drop to the ground and walked around the table to Crugion. “Why, pray tell, have you kept them alive? That man caused me more trouble than all the other knights under the old regime together. Bonstaph—curse him! That sanctimonious bastard nearly caused an uprising against the council when he refused to swear his allegiance.”

  Crugion held a scowl on his face as he turned from Magnus to Trager. “My father has requested Bonstaph himself. Does your addled memory not serve you well enough to remember why?”

  Trager stared at Crugion much as he had at Magnus. He ran his tongue across his lips as he thought. “Ah yes… of course… he killed your brother.”

  Crugion stared once again at Magnus. Magnus did not know what to think. Ganister said they would be looking for me—because I was Bonstaph’s son—and this is why! He imagined his parents in the hands of Delvion waiting for vengeance to be dealt.

  “Boron was his name,” Trager remembered. “After his death your legions retreated.”

  “My father was driven mad by Boron’s death.”

  “Your father was mad long before that,” Magnus contributed. Both Crugion and Trager looked at him. Crugion’s face darkened.

  “Then there’s the matter of the mother—Bonstaph’s wife,” Trager said. “Are you aware of her heritage?”

  “I can’t say that I am,” Crugion answered in a condescending manner.

  “She is of the Ice Realm… of the Rhydermere. If her blood is spilt on your account, you will bring the wrath of the Rhyders of the North. You know full well how they dispense vengeance.”

  Crugion pointed a gloved finger at Magnus who was struggling to comprehend the layers of deception and scheming that pre-empted the attack on his family. “I see you speak half truths, Rhyderman.” He turned back to Trager. “Leave the boy with me.”

  “Why would I do that?” Trager insisted.

  “With father and son in my keep, what would I not be able to get either to do?”

  “Very well,” Trager turned to Magnus. “You get to keep your head, boy. But I trust before the end you will wish I had cut it off.”

  The knights holding Magnus dragged him around toward the large doors of the Great Hall. The doors opened and Magnus struggled as best he could to free himself. He slipped one hand free and used it to punch one of the knights in the face. Both his arms were then gripped by the strongest of holds. It was one of the Quagman. Briet appeared in front of him, baring new scars upon his face. Magnus guessed it was from Eamon’s fire dust. Briet drew one of his black swords and spun it so that its pommel faced forward and drove it into Magnus’s forehead. Magnus felt immediate, blinding pain that stole his vision moments before he collapsed, unconscious on the floor of the Great Hall.

  TRAINING

  The aroma of scented oils permeated through the room and into Catanya’s dreams. She breathed of it deeply, dreaming she was at home in the Uydferlands, walking through the barley fields and feeling the warmth of the summer sun on her face. Through its burning brilliance, Catanya squinted—something was soaring toward her.

  “Catanya!” a voice called. The creature shielded the sun and she could see it was Balgur. “Catanya!” the voice called again. It was familiar and made her heart race. Balgur turned and Catanya could see he was carrying a rider. It was Magnus.

  “Magnus!” Catanya shouted, reaching out for him. She gasped from the pain that seared through her body, waking her. She slumped back against the hard bed and groaned. The sound echoed back to her.

  “Rest.” A woman’s voice came from behind her.

  Catanya opened her eyes and looked around the unfamiliar room. The walls and ceiling were crafted of perfect white stone, each meticulously placed alongside the next. Small crevices in the stonework held candles that gave the room a mellow glow. She was in the middle of the room lying upon a white marble table draped with white cloth. Catanya sighed as the blissful dream faded from her mind.

  “What is this place?” Catanya asked with a raspy voice. She arched her head back and saw a priest hidden beneath hooded robes at the head of the table.

  “Be still.” The priest moved towards her, standing over Catanya, where she placed her palms on her head and tilting it forward. She then moved to Catanya’s side, drawing her hood back. Catanya studied her. She was taller and had fairer skin than Catanya. Her facial features were fine with dark, cat-like eyes. Her nose was long and thin and led her chiselled face down to a pointy chin. Her appearance was striking and she had a very controlled, serious demeanour about her. Her jet-black hair was pulled neatly back across the right side of her head where it was tied into a tight plait that flowed down her back then up and over her left shoulder. The left side of her head was shaven and covered in the markings all priests seemed to have.

  “Your body has purged and now it rebuilds,” the priest said. Looking down, Catanya saw that her body was entirely wrapped in white cloths that were soaked in oils. The priest leaned over her and wrapped an additional cloth around her right ankle. Catanya winced from the pain.

  “The pain will pass. You have many wounds from your cleansing. But you heal well. Balgur smiles upon you.” Catanya looked at the woman for further explanation. “You carried Balgur’s talon beyond your cleansing. You accepted his strength. Balgur smiles upon you now. That is why you heal well.”

  Catanya closed her eyes for a moment. They hurt as much as the rest of her body. “What exactly have I purged?”

  “All the rubbish,” the priest tapped Catanya’s forehead, “up here.”

  Catanya frowned and thought about the answer for a moment. “What then replaces it?”

  “That is for you to discover. Your training will help with that.” The priest took a palm-sized bowl from a small table behind her. She supported Catanya’s head, bringing the bowl to her lips. Catanya was ravenous and the sweet, warm nectar surged down her throat and into her stomach making her body shake with vigour. She gulped at the bowl but too soon the priest took it away. “A little at a time.”

  Grateful for the food, Catanya’s spirits lifted. “Thank you. What is your name?”

  “Jael.”

  “Thank you, Jael,” Catanya said. She wanted to know more about Jael but decided instead to respect her instruction to rest.

  When Catanya next woke, she felt somewhat better. The stabbing pain of her wounds had lessened to dull
aches. Sitting up on her bed, she swung her legs around and carefully lowered her feet, shivering as they touched the cold stone floor. Looking herself over she saw Jael had removed the cloths and replaced them with a silk robe draped over the front of her body. Catanya took the robe and wrapped it around herself, feeling how smooth her skin had become from the scented oils that helped with her healing.

  How long have I been here? she wondered. On the small white table beside her bed were three single white candles—now the only light illuminating the otherwise dark room. On the table was a bowl of the sweet syrup she had tasted earlier. She took the bowl and drank of it slowly this time, savouring the intriguing flavours of honey, ginger, camomile and other more spicy extracts she could not recognise. Catanya replaced the empty bowl and noticed a small piece of folded paper beside it. She opened it, reading the single word written on it. “Fleatermara,” she said aloud. She considered it for a moment, then recognised it as the Fireisgh word for righteous. She realised then Joffren must have left it for her.

  Catanya paced around the room, feeling the blood course through her limbs and the pins and needles fade from her feet. She craved for two things at this point—a hot bath and a warm, hearty meal. Neither seemed likely at this stage. Yawning, she pushed her arms high above her head, clasped her hands together and stretched her palms until her knuckles cracked. She bent forward until her head touched her legs and pushed her knees back until they locked, feeling the stiffness in the back of her legs stretch out. Upright again, she twisted her body from side to side, pushing past the tightness in her back until her spine clicked free.

  The only other thing in the room was a set of clothes at the end of the bed, neatly folded with a pair of boots sitting on top. Taken as a sign she was to dress when ready, Catanya did so and found herself clothed as the other priests were, in a black hooded robe that folded across her front, around her back and tied off to the side. The boots were made of a mixture of black canvas and leather that ended midway up her lower leg. They had black laces from toe to top and a series of leather straps that buckled across the foot, ankle and shin. She moved around the room and was pleased to find the clothes were comfortable. Catanya repeated her stretches once again then tied her hair back with one of the folded cloth pieces that remained on the small table, grateful to still have her hair. Then she found the door.

  Before opening it, she reflected on the words Austagia had told her. “What do you imagine you cannot do as an Irucantî? ... It is the only way. Some things you cannot run from.”

  Catanya squinted in the midday sun. Her eyes soon adjusted and she looked back and saw that the door through which she had just exited was a small auxiliary door at the eastern side of the shining black temple. There were several other doors evenly spaced along the smooth wall. Catanya looked up, following the wall of the temple that vaulted ever upward and ended just below a thin wisp of cloud that moved swiftly across the perfect blue sky.

  She followed a pebbled path that led to the front of the temple. Here she saw Joffren sitting cross-legged on stone steps leading down to the common. His eyes were closed and he remained still. Not wanting to disturb him, Catanya sat silently on a step a small distance from him. Assuming it was the appropriate thing to do, she crossed her legs and sat tall, enjoying the stretch through her muscles yet again. She felt the sluggishness in her movement and wondered once again how long she had been asleep in the temple.

  After a moment, Joffren stood and walked over to Catanya. She too stood and looked to him.

  “Hello, Joffren,” Catanya said. Joffren stared at her without responding. “Semsdi,” she nodded, using the formal address.

  “Semsarian,” Joffren replied. “Are you well?”

  Catanya did not answer, wary that Joffren might have another terrible episode waiting for her. Joffren seemed to sense her trepidation.

  “You’re cleansing period is over. Come.” Joffren led the way down the stairs, away from the temple. Catanya looked back toward the black temple doors. She tried to see inside the sacred building but saw only darkness. They walked across the wide common leading to various smaller buildings arranged neatly around the Romghold. Catanya peered to her right toward the training field where she had completed her cleansing. A chill ran down her back and she turned away.

  “Jael tells me you have healed exceptionally well.”

  “I feel well,” Catanya said, trying not to sound too self-assured. Joffren broke into a jog and she followed him.

  “Semsarian, what have you gained from the cleansing?”

  Catanya picked up her pace to remain beside the long-legged man. They kept jogging as Joffren waited for Catanya to answer his question. She pondered it a moment, recalling what Jael had said about her purging the rubbish from her mind.

  “Be quick to answer Semsarian—what have you gained?”

  “A clear mind,” Catanya said, hoping it would satisfy Joffren.

  Joffren considered Catanya’s answer a good while before responding, “Very well.” He increased his speed, turning sharply to his right between two buildings then left again down a narrow path. Catanya kept close beside him. Then Joffren broke into a sprint, running past the last of the buildings toward the eastern border of the Romghold where a steep mountain ascended like a wall to the sky. They reached the mountain face and stopped. Joffren stood at ease, placing his arms behind his back, showing no evidence at all of strain from the run. Catanya faced him, mirroring his position, trying to play down her breathlessness and the countless aches in her body.

  “Now that your mind is clear, find your purpose. One that is greater than your self,” Joffren explained. “Your calling as a priest is your vocation, but your reason for doing so is your own. Remember this. It will help you on your path to righteousness.”

  Catanya nodded in acknowledgement. She looked up at him, staring into his blue eyes and whispered back to him, “Fleatermara… thank you for your note, Semsdi.”

  Joffren looked back to her and nodded once.

  A voice called out, interrupting their conversation. Catanya turned to see Jael running toward them from the direction they had come. She was coming fast—unnaturally fast to Catanya’s eyes. She looked tall and poised and barely touching the ground. Her demeanour was fierce and she looked nothing at all like she did when Catanya saw her in the healing room. She was dressed as a warrior. Her shoulders, chest and legs were covered in polished armour of a dark, ruddy hue that clung taut to her lithe body.

  “An Irucantî warrior…” Catanya said to herself.

  “A Ferustir—if you will,” Joffren corrected.

  Jael pulled alongside Catanya and Joffren. “Semsame, Semsarian.” she said, nodding to Joffren then Catanya respectively. “I travel west having been set to task and…” She paused looking at Catanya.

  “You may break word with both of us, Semsame,” Joffren assured her.

  “I bring grave news. There is a wayward dragon youngling who has wandered into dangerous lands.”

  “That is indeed grave news,” Joffren said with concern on his face.

  “The High Priests have given me task to bring him back into the fold.” Jael tightened a leather buckle across her chest that held some kind of weapon strapped to her back, together with a quiver of arrows and a bow. Catanya studied her, admiring her finely crafted suit. She pulled her shoulders back and drew her stomach in—emulating Jael’s posture.

  “Have you any knowledge of the youngling’s whereabouts?” Joffren asked.

  “The OhUid folk have seen him within Froughton Forest. He was last seen deep in the eastern arm of the Valley of Shadows,” Jael sighed.

  Joffren considered Catanya for a moment before addressing Jael again, “Let us accompany you as far as the Domult Lookout.”

  “Thank you, but I travel with urgency—”

  “I will not hold you back,” Catanya interrupted. “But if I do, go on without me.”

  Jael looked to Joffren.

  “Agreed?” he said
.

  “Agreed,” Jael conceded. She broke into a run along the base of the mountain with Joffren and Catanya hot on her heels. Catanya was excited and at the same time confused. She was happy to be part of something but still unsure of her commitment to her role as Semsarian.

  Joffren glanced back to her. “So it is, then, your training begins.”

  After running several hundred yards, Jael vanished through a small crevice within the mountain face, closely followed by Joffren. Catanya ran hard and fast, determined to keep up with them. The crevice was narrow and the rock face either side went straight up as though the mountain here had split in two to allow them passage. It was close to a mile before they emerged at the far side of the mountain and turned a sharp left. Making the turn, Catanya caught her breath. To her right was a cliff face that dropped for miles below. She ran hard and fast along the narrow goat track, keeping her left shoulder brushing against the mountain face as assurance. She dared not look down over the cliff yet the view out beyond to the east was astounding. Catanya saw an eagle soaring high on the thermals where the mountain ranges ended giving way to the Neverseas beyond—an endless spread of blue that sparkled under a perfectly blue sky.

  The run continued and Jael never let up. She would jump or somersault over any object in her path. Joffren mirrored each of Jael’s movements and clearly had the fitness to match even though, Catanya supposed, he was twice Jael’s age. The ground widened out to the right and Catanya was able to relax a little, realising she had kept her whole body tense as she ran along the cliff face. She took a few deeper breaths and re-routed all her energy into running.

  Is this all they do—run?

  Jael then released a loud wolf whistle. She repeated it several times in a pattern of four sharp sounds. Joffren copied the call himself and the two of them ran faster still down the path that seemed to go nowhere. Catanya looked ahead where the path ended at a drop-off.