One Cannot Deny a Blood Oath with a Dragon

by T P Sheehan

  “Let her be,” Carlo commanded and Sarah sank to the hard stone ground of the arena. Magnus ran to her. He held her in his arms. She looked far weaker than when last he saw her.

  “Can you hear me, Mother?” he feinted, not wanted to compromise his identity. But Sarah was barely conscious. Magnus sighed. I need to protect her, no matter what.

  Magnus thought about the Quagman he killed so easily, so too the guards in the city. Thioci told him he had inherited his power and Balgur told him he carried the legacy of the Fire Realm. Perhaps he really did have the strength to do as well as Brutus in the arena. So be it. He spoke to Carlo in his most confident voice.

  “You feed us well. You protect my mother. I see her each evening to ensure her safety. And I shall kill every man who stands before me in the arena.”

  “Very well,” Carlo clapped his hands together. “You fight tomorrow.”

  Magnus was afforded time in Sarah’s prison cell. It was not a shared cage like his accommodation, but a four-walled cell with a steel braced, hardwood door in a dungeon deeper beneath the city. Sarah was in complete darkness but for a small sphere of light induced by her spells that hovered a few inches beneath the damp ceiling. Her cell was nowhere near his own, but he believed with repeated visits he would soon memorise the route. At some point I’ll be able to get her out of here.

  As Carlo agreed, Magnus and Sarah were fed a meal consisting of wholesome food—cooked lamb, fruit, cheese and watered-down wine. Magnus could not believe Carlo was so agreeable on this matter. He must be investing a lot on my success in the arena.

  Magnus took care to feed Sarah. She ravenously devoured half the quantity of food before falling asleep. Magnus then began to eat for himself for the first time in as long as he could remember. It did not take long to recall his appetite and he ate every remaining morsel of food before him, finishing off with the wine. With a belly full of food and his appetite rediscovered, his spirits lifted.

  Magnus paced around Sarah’s room, feeling elated he had achieved a small win for himself and Sarah. His body coursed with the combined warmth of food, wine and dragon blood. He began performing exercises, squatting with his arms crossed in front of him for a count of one hundred. He then lay face down and pushed upward for a further count of one hundred. As he finished he saw Sarah had woken and was watching him, without saying a word. Magnus smiled at her.

  “Do you remember back home when you said to me, ‘There is good yet to come of this’?” Magnus asked. “You called it ‘gypsy’s intuition’. Remember?”

  Sarah nodded. “Aye. I underestimated how long the good would take to come.” Magnus explained to her how their fates were tied together. “What a curse I have brought on you, Magnus.” Sarah hung her head low.

  “I brought this on myself, Sarah. And for that I am sorry.”

  They both fell to silence and Sarah cast a spell so that a second light appeared, hovering at the ceiling, giving the room more illumination. She stood and looked at Magnus, holding his face in her mothering manner. She examined his eyes then the rest of his face before checking him over from head to toe.

  “I am fine, Sarah,” Magnus assured her.

  “No Magnus, you are not yourself.”

  “I feel good Sarah. I feel fit and strong and…”

  “I can see that, but you are not yourself. Look at you Magnus… your strength has grown in a way unnatural for a mortal man. No magic I know of could bestow you with such a change. Two weeks in the dungeons and you bear not a scratch. Every wound you have heals over, except this one here…” Sarah held his right wrist and rubbed her fingers over the scar that Thioci gave him. “This mark will never fade, nor will its significance. You have received the blood of a dragon, haven’t you?”

  Magnus was silent. It was something he did not want to reveal to anyone, especially here in Ba’rrat.

  “I smell its ashen scent in your sweat. I feel its heat radiating from you. I have known your energy and presence since I held you as a baby. They have changed. They are not your own. Since I held you in the prison carriage… I knew.”

  Magnus did not know what to say. He felt ashamed for keeping it a secret from Sarah, but it was hardly a secret if she knew all along.

  “Do not fear this, Magnus.” Sarah squeezed his wrist tightly. “It is a gift of fate. You have been chosen for greatness. There is nothing more for you here. Escape while you can and before your power is discovered. You know who rules over this place. He will never let you live if ever he found out.”

  Magnus smiled at Sarah. He felt good to have someone to confide in. “Mother and Father are here in the city, Sarah. I have been told as much.”

  Sarah sat herself down again with her back against the wall and sighed. “I see. That is why you allowed yourself to be brought here.”

  “It was the only way.”

  Sarah looked around the room as she gathered her thoughts. “It seems we are stuck here for the time being,” she said. “The least I can do is spend it teaching you some useful magic—Gypsy magic that is. It will help with the story of my being your mother and possibly help you in the arena.” Magnus thought it a good idea. “Aside from that, I can tell you about your parents—particularly your mother. She is a reserved woman but she has always confided in me. I think you would appreciate a broader understanding of her people… of her former life in the Ice Realm.”

  Magnus was grateful for her offer. “I would like that very much.”

  “Very well then. You come here every evening as Carlo agreed and I will have a schedule worked out. It will be your training.” Sarah smiled the way she used to smile.

  “Magic and history!” Magnus said.

  “Yes, magic and history.”

  The guards opened the door and grunted at Magnus to clear out. Before he did, he gave Sarah a kiss on the cheek.

  The following morning, Magnus had lost none of his fervour and stood at the ready when the guards came for him.

  “Fight strong, Lucas!” Brutus boomed encouragingly.

  “I shall see you soon,” Magnus replied.

  Magnus was taken to an armoury room that looked out to the Arena where a battle was taking place. One man wielded a dull, poorly made sword and the other a long spear. Magnus could immediately tell the man with the spear would win, for the swordsman appeared inexperienced and looked tired and beaten. Within minutes the fight was over, ending as Magnus predicted. A wave of anxiety passed through his stomach as he realised he was going to be fighting for the same prize—his life.

  With the squeal of rusty hinges, the gate to the armoury opened, snapping Magnus out of his reflective state. Carlo entered from the arena.

  “Useless,” he scorned. “A hundred darna he cost me and not one fight in him.” He looked at Magnus. “Lucas, I trust you and your mother enjoyed your meal last night?”

  “We did,” Magnus spoke flatly, not wanting to sound too appreciative.

  “Well, make your choice.” Carlo cast a hand over a table holding a selection of badly made weapons. There were swords, spears, a triton, daggers, a mace and several other things Magnus did not recognise. “I trust a sword will be to your liking? You’ve killed enough of Delvion’s men with one to know it suits.” Carlo picked one from the table and handed it to Magnus. “Our fine swordsmith—Dougal—sharpened them all himself. He died two winters ago.” Carlo scratched his forehead.

  Magnus wished he had his fleu-steel sword with him. It would never have needed sharpening thanks to the wards protecting the blade and hardness of the steel. That would certainly make my job easier. In lieu of it, he swapped the sword Carlo handed him for another, longer sword with parallel sides ending in a dull point. There was a broken full-length mirror beside the table that he glanced at. He was taken aback by his own reflection. The man before him had a short, dirty beard and unkempt hair. His leather pants were weathered. His chest and arms were strong and toned—hardly the body he knew as his own.

  “When you’ve finished admiring yo
urself boy, there’s a fight waiting for you.”

  Magnus stepped out into the sun-drenched arena. It was a completely different spectacle to the day before. The grandstands held hundreds of spectators filling the rows in each of the four wings that surrounded the arena. There were men, women and children of all ages. To the north, shaded by large black sails, were the seats of the more noble folk, going by their attire and the surrounding guards separating them from more common folk who sat or stood about in a more chaotic fashion. They cheered and leered as Magnus walked out to the centre of the arena. Then came colourful swearing and spitting in Magnus’s direction with some even throwing scraps of food as insult.

  It dawned on Magnus all at once that Sarah’s life would be forfeit that day if he should be killed. “That will not happen…” Magnus repeated the words to himself as a mantra.

  The arena was silenced when trumpets blared to announce the start of the fight. Magnus turned in circles, looking for his opponent, when seemingly out of nowhere something hit him hard in the chest, sending him barrelling to the ground. Winded and shocked, he wondered where the man who attacked him came from. He clambered to his feet, still holding his sword as the man charged at him again. He was very short, with long auburn hair that grew down from the back and sides of his head surrounding a bald top. He came at Magnus fast, leaping high and throwing a net over his head.

  Magnus tugged at the netting, trying to free himself but the more he did the more entangled he was. Panic set in. He tried desperately to struggle free. He was reminded of the meliae in The Valley of Shadows and how she tried to strangle him. The crowd cheered as the small man—no higher than Magnus’s chest—waved his arms around encouraging excited screams from the crowd. The little man then picked up a trident from the ground and charged toward Magnus.

  Magnus crouched to the ground. He slowed his breathing and curled himself into a ball giving the net enough slack that he could shift his sword about and cut through a strand of the rope. Just as the small man reached him, his sword cut free. The man jumped again and threw his trident as one would a spear. Magnus leaned just enough to let the trident glisten past him and spun his body around, catching the small man as he landed, driving his long sword deep into his stomach. His opponent fell to the ground. The crowd fell silent.

  Able to relax, Magnus pulled himself free of the net and walked over to the small man who lay gasping for breath, his stomach bleeding out. The wound was fatal. Magnus looked back toward the gate of the armoury, where Carlo began to shout and cheer with delight. The crowd soon joined him and the trumpets sounded once again.

  Beckoning him to return, Magnus walked over to Carlo who slapped him encouragingly across the shoulder.

  “Good job, Lucas.” Carlo was grinning. Magnus held tight to his sword.

  “Have you another?” Magnus asked. Fire coursed through him again and Magnus felt as though he could take on all of Allumbreve.

  Carlo cheered again. “Another fight? Not today. You have given the crowd a taste and they will return to see more. Even more so, they will want to know your name. What shall we name you for the crowd, young Lucas—hmm?”

  Magnus could not help but feel a little encouraged by Carlo’s enthusiasm. He thought about his question, thinking of a name that would suit. A name that would pay tribute to the Fire Realm and his people. A name that would pay tribute to the dragon realm that bestowed him with his strength. He thought again of the pride of the Couldradt fire dragons.

  “Well, what of it? What shall we name you?” Carlo beckoned.

  “Balgur. I shall be Balgur.”

  BAD TIDINGS

  6 months later…

  “Do you think you are ready?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well then.”

  Since her Inauguration, Joffren rarely questioned Catanya. He treated her as equal, addressed her always as Semsame, yet continued with her training for another gruelling six months. Catanya appreciated this quality in him for it reinforced her own confidence in her abilities. This time she was not so sure though—the Tenuura of the knives was considered the hardest test for a young Irucantî to pass.

  It seemed Joffren sensed her apprehension. “We have rehearsed this for months, Semsame.”

  “I am ready.” Catanya knelt and retied her laces. They did not need to be any tighter, it just gave her a moment of reflection and had become her little ritual before she began a test.

  The first of these tests was the shardo bu evorth—pairing of the swords. Here, Catanya had to spar against Joffren until she was able to separate him from his sword and take it for herself—thereby be in possession of a pair of swords. It took twelve hours of straight sparring before she bested him just once. She was humiliated, exhausted and required two days healing from the lacerations she received during the ordeal.

  Next was the trusul diev—trust dive. She was paired with a beautiful female dragon named Liné. Strapped into the saddle, Catanya rode with Liné as she dove deep into a ravine, far below the eastern cliff face and pulled up before hitting the bottom only when Liné sensed Catanya’s fear or desire to do so. Liné repeated this stunt over and over again, each time they got closer to the rocky creek bed before Catanya was gripped with fear. They had repeated the dive over fifty times in two days before Catanya learned to trust Liné’s judgement and free her mind of fear. Liné insisted they complete a successful dive many times over to ensure Catanya’s trust. At the completion of the task, Catanya had nightmares about the ordeal for three nights.

  The Tenuura of the knives was the most dangerous challenge of all and was the last of nine. Catanya first learned about it in her Murata Fara. To succeed she would focus her mind, allowing her to perceive the trajectory of a knife thrown with lethal intent. She must catch the knife and dispose of it into an offside target. As was tradition, a residing priest would take the role of Tenuur—thrower. Unfortunately for Catanya, a priest named Demi was passing through the Romghold. She was renowned for being the most competent wielder of knives in the priesthood.

  “Is she really that good?” Catanya had asked Joffren.

  In reply, Joffren had rolled the sleeves of his robe up and shown the half dozen scars across each arm she had dealt him during a sparring session. “She is the best, Semsame.”

  Her laces tied with double-knots, Catanya stood upon the training field and took a deep breath. She was wearing her regular priest’s robes—her Ferustir suit was stored away for battle attire only. Is this not battle worthy? Catanya pondered, wishing for the protection of her battle suit’s armour. Sitting on a podium fifty feet away with her legs crossed, back straight and eyes closed was Demi. In her right hand she held a sheath with eight throwing knives partially drawn and splayed apart for easy retrieval. She licked the tip of her thumb and rubbed it over the top of each blade’s handle in turn. Demi’s absolute focus intimidated Catanya. She took a breath. So be it—my final test.

  Four targets stood each side of the fifty-foot distance between Catanya and Demi. Each target was an apple perched on top of a six-foot high pole. These were the targets Catanya had to hit if she caught the knives thrown by Demi. Demi never missed her target—that much Catanya knew. If she were to survive the ordeal it would be up to her to stop the blades—all eight of them.

  Catanya walked cautiously toward Demi. She slowed her breathing as Joffren had taught her. His words resonated through her mind—“Feel the heat of the dragon within you. Do not fight it. Let it clear your mind and give you the power you need. Whether you win or lose depends on this faith.”

  Demi allowed Catanya to settle into herself before she threw the first knife. When it came though, Catanya was alarmed at the violent speed of the blade. Whistling through the air with pinpoint accuracy, Catanya raised her arms and clapped her hands firmly together, feeling the blade’s sting. It slipped through her hands, but Catanya turned and grabbed it, before hurtling it off to her right side and burying the blade into the first apple.

  A na
sty smirk crossed Demi’s face. The second knife came faster. Catanya was more focussed this time, watching it hurtle toward her. She reached out and grabbed the knife by its handle. Her other hand was ready for the third knife that was already half way toward her. With both knives caught, she threw them simultaneously at respective targets, placing one perfectly through the centre of the apple, but the other twirled past its target, missing it by half an inch.

  Catanya took several deep breaths and Demi allowed her a moment to recover.

  Two out of three. I must get six of the eight to pass the test…

  Demi held the next knife up, twisting it between her fingers revealing to Catanya that she in fact held two. Catanya felt the familiar sensation of heat searing through her body and her heart pounded. “The heart of the Ferustir,” Joffren called it. The world seemed to slow and she watched as the two blades came at her, only an inch from one another as they reached her. Catanya caught one by the handle and the other by the sharp blade itself, slicing through her right palm as it slithered to a halt. Blood ran freely through her fingers. Ignoring the pain, she threw both blades and each successfully hit their respective targets.

  Pain gripped Catanya again as the sixth blade sliced through Catanya’s left earlobe, almost severing it. She had not anticipated Demi throwing it so soon.

  Cupping her good hand over her ear, Catanya reached out with her injured right hand and caught the next blade that Demi must have hoped would catch her off guard. Catanya carefully threw the blade into its target.

  One knife to go… I must get the sixth target. Demi sat motionless, waiting for the opportune moment to throw the last of her blades. Catanya let go of her ear and could feel the warm blood run down her neck. She tried to ignore the pain from both injuries.

  Demi waited. She was giving Catanya way too much time to think things over. Catanya was only twenty feet from Demi and wondered for a fleeting moment what the priest would do if she threw the last knife back at her instead of the target. She quickly dismissed the idea, knowing Demi would return it to her with such deadly force it would likely kill her.