Dragon Fire

by Pedro L. Alvarez

  "His madness shall not go on much longer," said Galyan. "In this life you shall see Delcan—"

  "No.” Roimas’s pulse quickened; a sudden fever rushed up to his face. “Delcan has just been born. He knows no allegiance or betrayal. He came into the turmoil of this world quietly, without a cry of discomfort and that is how I want him to live his life." His shoulders shook and for a moment he thought his knees would buckle.

  He took in a deep breath and the beating of his heart at last slowed. "Telias feared... she thought he had been born without a soul. He was so still and quiet. Alive, yet so lifeless. He fell into a deep sleep shortly after his first breath. His lips turned pale, the whole of his skin seemed bruised. Telias holds him close hour after hour, and weeps. I... I have stood by her, hoping, pleading that the Great Spirit who was would reach down and touch him, take the illness away."

  He knew the wizard could free Delcan from death’s grip; he desperately wanted him to do so. But he did not want his son to live a life of war and uncertainty such as his had been. The kingdom can fend for itself, Roimas thought. My son need not be sacrificed. Somehow, he and Telias would keep the talk of prophecy and destiny far from Delcan’s ears. Like him, Delcan would farm the land; he would sell the harvest at the village square and he would live the life of just another commoner. "Galyan, I haven’t any strength left in me. If by your wonder Delcan is to live,” Roimas whispered, “I wish it not to be under the shadow of my sins. It is bad enough he will live in a world I helped bring into chaos. Orsak would have never been King if I…"

  "Rojimon, Delcan shall realize a new day in Paraysia," Galyan said and placed his hands on Roimas’s shoulders. “He shall make his own shadow and it shall spread across the kingdom.” He looked up at the few stars still visible on the cloud-covered sky. "The night above us knows it to be so. Soothsayers rumored years ago that white dust would rain from the sky when the prophecy was answered. A dark cloud hangs over the kingdom tonight, and it is rumbling."

  Roimas desperately told himself that perhaps the wizard was wrong. Perhaps the curse was nothing more than words spat out in anger. Perhaps the so-called prophecy was only one of those tall tales of hope.

  And yet, even now, Roimas knew he would teach the boy to wield a sword, to handle a longbow, to protect and defend himself. And, for as long as time would permit, he would keep Delcan close; he would keep him from ever venturing out of the Crossings.

  He took one last glance at the night and shivered.

  "Come," said Galyan. "Take me to him. I shall free your son. Let me touch him and death shall no longer haunt him."

  "And the price?"

  Galyan shook his head. "I have none; destiny shall demand one in time."

  Roimas closed his eyes for a brief moment then followed Galyan along the path to his door. In the distance, beyond the eastern horizon, a cloud exploded with thunder. Roimas looked at the distant lightning and wondered how long before the frozen rain of lands unknown fell over the only kingdom he would ever know.

  Chapter One

  Delcan was gone. Roimas had sensed it, had known it, just as his eyes met the muted light of morning creeping in through the shutters. The premonition had arrived as a familiar murmur in the back of his mind as he lay pressed between sleep and the awakening world.

  For thirty-seven years that ruining gift (that curse) for portents of things yet unseen had whispered of impending storms and coming births; of dry spells and bad crops. It came to him with no certain frequency, yet often enough for him to recognize the itch behind the ears and the soft, almost soothing thought that passed through his mind. Still, the feeling surprised him every time; he was yet to grow used to its interference.

  Mostly, these sighs of foretelling provided Roimas with insight into things that took place in other parts of Paraysia. Mundane, quiet things. It had been nearly two decades since the premonitions warned of anything that would rob him of sleep. The last of such revelations had forewarned him of Delcan’s birth and the hours of anguish he and Telias would experience as Delcan lay hardly alive, wrapped in sickness, awaited by death.

  This morning he stood shadow-less at the farmhouse’s open door—a man of unassuming stature and wide streaks of gray in his auburn hair—surveying the land that stretched out from his doorstep for a sight of his son, knowing he’d find none. Wrapped in clouds, the morning light gave the land a washed down gray hue.

  “He has gone,” he said to Telias as she stood beside him. “Despite all my efforts.”

  “How long before he reaches Castilmont?” Telias asked.

  “Two full days, I’d say. Most on foot, the last few hours surely on the back of some merchant’s cart. Or on a borrowed horse, if Sandrion has anything to do with it.” He turned to Telias and they shared a tentative smile.

  “Sandrion’s a good boy. With all his jest and mischief he won’t put Delcan in harm’s way anymore than he’d put his own mother.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Roimas chuckled, then instantly wished he hadn’t. Mention of Sandrion’s mother added yet another level of concern to his mind. The woman was widowed only a year before when Sandrion’s father, a merchant, had been killed by a bandit’s dagger—so it has been told—while travelling the very same road to Castilmont. Had she known that Sandrion and Delcan had planned to steal away at dawn to follow that road to the King’s castle, she would have bound Sandrion to his own bed for fear of losing all she had left.

  “Go see her today,” Roimas said and Telias nodded. “Tell her not to fear; he will be fine.”

  After a moment of silence, Telias said, “He will compete in the tournament, you know. He will compete and he will do well.”

  Roimas bowed his head and added, more to himself than to his wife, “And at the end he will stand there, before King Orsak himself. My son, face to face with the man who still hunts me for my betrayal of him—perhaps not as openly as he once did, but still he searches for me. Still he wants me imprisoned, or dead, and when he looks at Delcan he will surely see my face in his.”

  “Roimas, this is not a thing you can stop. Even if Delcan were like any other young man in the kingdom, you could not have made him stay behind today, or the next time.”

  Roimas nodded. He knew she spoke the truth. The day’s tournament was the one chance a farmer in the westernmost village of the kingdom would ever have to become more than what the world around him told him he was.

  Every fifth year, the Flarian Festival, which celebrated the coming of Spring, hosted a contest of skill. A contest that called for all common men in the kingdom—the sons of tradesmen, fishermen, farmers—to show their worth; to showcase their skills as archers and swordsmen and challenge the King’s own knights. Only three would be chosen, the best of the many challengers, as those who would serve as squires to three of the King’s knights. Squires that may one day be knighted themselves.

  With his head spinning in slow swirls, Roimas thought of the irony of it all. He had sworn to himself—and to the Great Spirit of Allgad that once watched over this land—that he would protect Delcan from King Orsak’s reach, at all cost. Yet, now, in his nineteenth year, Delcan had found a way to place himself within the King’s grasp.

  “Can you see it?” Telias asked in a whisper. Roimas shook his head. “Then you cannot know.” She laid her hand on Roimas’s shoulder.

  Her hand felt light as a breeze, and warm as a hearth fire. “Are you not worried?” he said as he turned to face her.

  “I worry,” she admitted, “but I knew this was to happen, and soon. And I also know, without the benefit of that touch you have on the days of tomorrow, that he will return. Unharmed.”

  Roimas nodded. He knew this as well. “And when he returns…” he trailed off.

  The road, the journey, Delcan’s return—none of these things worried him. It was what the boy would find at the end that concerned him. It even terrified him. And when that fear emerged, he hoped and wished that Sandrion’s house would be the farthest Delcan would
go this morning. That he would remain in Berest and ignore the merchants and idiots who would make the trip to Castilmont for the Flarian Festival. That he would, instead, linger in the village square with his childhood friend, keeping watch for local young women who may catch his glances. That he would not venture out of The Crossings. That he not take the Western Road. That he turns around before ever catching site of the King’s castle.

  But it was an empty hope; he knew this, too. For, regardless of how much he wished it not to be so, the Flarian Festival was a lure that Delcan would not, could not, resist. And so it was for many of the young men in the three villages of the Crossings. At the age of nineteen, that call was stronger than ever.

  “And when he returns,” Telias finished the sentence for him. “He is to know the truth.”

  Roimas gazed at the blue in Telias’s eyes and was suddenly at the verge of weeping. She saw this and pulled him close to her.

  “He will love you still,” she whispered. “After all is said and done, he will love you still.”

  Chapter Two

  A dream echoing with fearful voices awoke Delcan from a restless sleep—sleep for which he had spent most of the night searching.

  He had lain on the soft ground, a stone’s throw from where Sandrion already slept deeply, looking forward to the rest his body so much needed after nearly a two-day journey on foot. Relief had come in closing his eyes but his mind had kept him awake chasing the ghostly images of Castilmont that preoccupied his thoughts. Opening his eyes again he had gazed upon the castle on the hilltop, fixed upon the sight of it standing against the stellar sky surrounded by shadows that danced in the night tide, as if waiting for something to happen. Until sleep came and so did the dream.

  Behind Delcan’s restless eyelids, a gray sky fell upon the land, engulfing it, shrouding it in bleakness. A colorless chill danced in the murky air and a cold rain, specks of soft white dust, fell upon King Orsak’s castle. Inside the fortress, he found himself alone in a vast room of stone walls and tall mirrors. A gold, wide chair stood in the center, flanked by its own reflection. Two immense windows that one would think were made for the sun itself to enter stretched up the entire back wall. Drapery hung in front of them.

  Such amazing windows, Delcan thought, and someone thought of covering them to keep out the light they were meant to invite.

  As he contemplated this, he felt a hand upon his shoulder. He turned and found his father looking at him with what seemed like relief on his face.

  “You are not the one,” Roimas said.

  Somewhere in the shadows of the room a voice cried out in despair.

  “You are not the one.”

  When the morning came, golden light grazed the tall grass as if the sun itself were brushing at it with the back of its hand. Breathless, Delcan winced at the stone digging into his shoulder, and at the sharp light of day cutting into his eyes. He covered his face with his hands. The dream still spun in his mind and his head felt heavy, tired.

  He sat up and rested his arms on his knees. The wind had not yet awakened and, for a moment, in the tranquility that comes with first light, the only sounds were the distant conversations of birds. He gave his eyes a hard rub with his knuckles and glanced around for Sandrion, whose sporadic snoring throughout the night had helped in keeping him awake. Sandrion was gone.

  Standing, Delcan scanned the western horizon for the familiar shadow of the Twilight Mountains he knew would not be there. Now more than a full day’s journey behind, the mountain range was no longer visible. Instead, for as far as he could, he saw level ground covered with scrub brush and tall grass. Sporadic trees stood about like loafing passersby. Thirty yards north crept the Western Road. Towering pines lined both sides like soldiers at attention scrutinizing all who approached the castle.

  This is the King’s land, he thought and a sudden desire to return home, to his father’s farm, tugged at him. Not for the first time since his departure, he regretted having left home cloaked in a lie.

  He brushed the strands of brown hair that hung over his eyes with his fingers and looked around for his friend. Only Sandrion’s blanket and boots remained beside the burnt wood that had been their fire; his bow and arrows were gone.

  Delcan called out Sandrion’s name. The brush swayed, responding with a quiet sigh. Nothing else moved; no other answer came. A flare of unease sparked in his heart. A bitter taste built up in his mouth. In his stomach he felt a thousand beetles crawling.

  With haste, he reached for his bow and quiver. Looking at the weapon, he thought of his father at once. Roimas had made the longbow and given it to Delcan only three days before, on his nineteenth birthday. With thoughts of home lingering, the feeling that Sandrion had deserted him, had turned back toward The Crossings, crossed Delcan’s mind like a shadow. He shook the notion away.

  On the afternoon of the day before last, as clouds of white turned to gold before the light of the sun, he and Sandrion had left Berest with their eyes aimed eastward and their minds drifting back home. They had stood at the edge of The Crossings, behind the inn at Serthia, and had filled their lungs with breaths of western air as if fearing it to be the last time it would pass their lips. With anticipation and smiles on their faces, they had walked out of the familiar into the rest of Paraysia; into a kingdom hardly known to them. One whose regions they knew only by name. Names of which their fathers had spoken, and had often warned against.

  Following the King’s road east, they had talked of what awaited them in Castilmont, the wonders it beheld. Of the festival and its colors, the tournament and its promise. Of how their lives would change. Intoxicated by their own enthusiasm they exchanged speculations of what it would be like as they passed under that gate; stood inside that courtyard; and bowed to King Orsak himself as the greatest warriors the kingdom had ever seen. A fever of excitement burned in their hearts. Until the last of the day’s walk across the kingdom, when a blurred notion of the hills that guarded the Valley of the Sun appeared before them, and they glimpsed the castle for the first time.

  At first sight, Castilmont robbed Delcan and Sandrion of their very breath, but not in the sense they had expected. The castle was supposed to still them with its beauty and its splendor; bring tears to their eyes; confirm that the risks taken in leaving Berest against their parents’ wishes were worth any consequence that should befall them. Instead, the fortress, although majestic in its size and station upon the summit of the nearest mound, had looked stony and cold. On its face it wore the abuses of Paraysia’s history like faded war paint—wide strokes of misery spread across its facade by King Orsak’s hands; reflections of a scarred kingdom. It had looked old, worn, blemished by the suffering that surrounded it. All at once the reality of which their fathers had spoken seemed more than just paternal lecturing.

  A brooding quiet had crashed down upon Delcan, trailing behind it thoughts of uncertainty. Beside him, Sandrion had dropped his eyes, apprehension visibly slowing his pace. As night fell upon them, the castle had become a black shape—beckoning, frightening. And the last of their enthusiasm had faded with the red light of yesterday’s sunset.

  Now, standing alone, looking at the towers of Castilmont over the trees, Delcan felt certain, as unlikely as it would ever be, that whatever voices droned in Sandrion’s head, had persuaded him to turn and walk back toward the Twilight Mountains.

  He found Sandrion standing in the middle of the road, as solid as a tree with roots deep underground, facing the rising slope that led to the castle. In one hand he held the water skin they had filled in Berest, in the other his bow. The quiver lay at his feet.

  With his shoulders slumped forward, Sandrion resembled a man of straw waiting for a black bird to frighten. Unlike Delcan who was tall and thin with a body sculpted by farm work, Sandrion had more the shape of a blacksmith—wide shoulders resting on a solid, muscular frame. He was a foot taller than Delcan and standing beside him Delcan always felt small.

  Watching him, squinting at the
morning, Delcan felt relief—at not being alone, he thought and pushed it away—followed by dismay as he struggled to find a way in which to break through the silence that had divided them since the night before. Friends since the age of nine, the lack of conversation worried him.

  Light touched the edges of the castle as if bringing forward into reality its shape while keeping its details in shadow.

  “Magnificent, is it not?” Delcan finally said as he joined Sandrion on the gravel road.

  “I suppose. Despite its darkness.”

  Sandrion took a generous swallow from the water skin and used the back of his arm to wipe his lips. He passed the water to Delcan.

  “It has stood there for ten generations.” Delcan took the water and drank, keeping his eyes on the distant structure, unable to calm the feeling in his stomach that by now had intensified.

  He turned to Sandrion and saw for the first time the distraught look on his friend’s face, as if a sheer hood woven out of troubled thoughts had been placed over his head. Sandrion’s eyes, brown with a light yellow tint, were vacant of the vitality Delcan had always seen in them.

  He opened his mouth to ask what the matter was when Sandrion spoke again.

  "Did you sleep?"

  Delcan shook his head and smiled. "You snored."

  Sandrion turned away from Castilmont, away from the sun still rising, and headed for camp. Delcan followed closely behind.

  "Did you sleep?"

  Sandrion shook his head.

  Following him into the grassland, Delcan said, "You are not nervous about the tournament, I hope," wanting to keep a light tone on their conversation. "Since when are you not confident about your skills?"

  Sandrion tossed him a cautious glance and turned his eyes back to the path in front of him. "It is not nerves." He hesitated, both in his walk and in his speech. "A dream.” He sighed. “I dreamt of the castle last night.”