Dragon Fire

by Pedro L. Alvarez

  Delcan stopped. You are not the one. "Rain," he whispered.

  Sandrion glanced back at him questioningly. “White rain?” Delcan didn’t respond. “I saw it too.”

  For the first time in ten years of friendship, Delcan held something back from Sandrion. Something kept him from telling his friend how much fear pressed down upon him. How it felt as if a pair of giant hands were pushing him onward, just as something else, something shrouded in obscurity, pulled him back.

  "I thought you never recalled your dreams."

  Shrugging his shoulders, Sandrion said, "I wish it were so in this case."

  At the place where their fire had burned the night before, Sandrion lowered himself as if his body had aged two decades and sat with his arms around his knees. He looked up at Delcan.

  "An odd dream," he said. "So clear. The rain was first, coming down on the castle in the night. Big, white drops that seemed to almost float down. Then, in daylight, or so it seemed, I was deep within Castilmont’s walls, running through the halls, searching for something—or someone. I could see the rooms, the banners on the walls, even now. The Throne Room. A vast room of high windows and shadows.” He frowned and shook his head. "In all that space, there were so many shadows."

  Delcan sat across from Sandrion and for a moment stared at the mound of ashes between them. He looked up and watched Sandrion avoid his eyes; that same sense of loneliness he had felt upon waking overcame him. He almost felt like weeping.

  "I smelled death inside the castle," Sandrion muttered. “A dry, hot smell. And in the dungeon. Death smelled strongest in the dungeon." Melancholy lumbered on Sandrion’s face. Dark half-circles hung under his eyes. "At the end of a snaking corridor with a low ceiling, beneath the castle. There are no torches on the walls and the sounds of the world don’t penetrate the stones. The chamber, itself, is long with dark cells at either side and—" Sandrion shook his head, closing his eyes "—things, wood and steel—machines, I think—in the center. At the far end it connects with another room, round, in it only blackness."

  “No one, none of whom I’ve ever heard, has seen the castle’s dungeon. Some even say it does not exist; that King Marcius never built one in Castilmont.”

  Sandrion raised his eyes to meet Delcan’s.

  “Well, it was real. Or it seemed so. All of it.” He hesitated. “In the shadows I saw a face. It had a pained expression on it, as if it were trying to scream but nothing came out. Then, it was all gone. The dungeon, the castle. I woke up before dawn and walked to the road, to get a better look at it. I watched the sun rise behind it, from it, and still Castilmont seems to be covered by darkness."

  Delcan glanced at the castle over Sandrion’s shoulder. His dream, his vision of frozen flakes raining down upon it, had felt real at the time, when his eyes were closed and his mind was held captive by it. Awake, even the memory of it seemed like a haze. Sandrion’s dream, however, seemed true just in his recounting it.

  He shuddered, unable to shake the sentiment that both dreams meant to tell them something. Of the past, perhaps. Or of the future. Both.

  "Whose face?" he asked suddenly. "Whose face did you see?"

  "I..." Sandrion shook his head. "I don’t know." The lie stumbled out.

  "Sandrion—"

  "There was so much darkness."

  Delcan sighed and offered Sandrion a thin smile. "Nerves."

  Sandrion gazed into Delcan’s eyes and again shook his head. When he looked away, it was a clear sign that they would discuss the dream no more for now.

  A cool breeze rose to meet the morning, drying the remaining dew off the grass. Birds sang at each other in the trees. The voices of other travelers on the road accompanied their melodies.

  As he and Sandrion shared a small loaf of bread in silence, Delcan sought to set aside the image of the dungeon his own mind had created. His father had told him little of the castle, and certainly nothing about the existence of an underground prison. Whenever he had asked about Castilmont, Roimas had waved the question away with a tired, "It’s nothing but stone walls; no different from any other castle the world has seen," and had left the room. Except, unlike the world, Delcan had never before seen a castle at all.

  "Delcan," Sandrion broke the silence. "Why are we doing this?"

  Glad to hear his friend’s voice again, Delcan smiled to himself before raising his head to meet Sandrion’s face.

  "Is it just for the adventure?"

  It took Delcan a moment to respond. "Yes. In a way." he said. "Yet, more than that. To experience life—real life—away from a farm, away from the watchful eyes of our parents."

  Sandrion nodded, as if reminding himself. "Outside The Crossings."

  "To taste something like victory or even to choke on defeat while doing something... I don’t know. For the reward."

  "A far reach, that reward," Sandrion said solemnly, sharpening his arrows with a stone.

  “And you?” asked Delcan. “Why venture out to Castilmont?”

  Strands of Sandrion’s hair fell over his eyes as he shrugged. “For my father,” he muttered. After a brief moment of silence and an audible sigh he raised his head and swept the hair away from his face. “For the reward. I wish for the same things you do. And I know there is nothing else this land can offer us but more of the same dullness of every day.”

  Delcan smiled to himself. “It is a chance to better our lives.”

  “We have no chance."

  "And why not? We grew up in the westernmost village in the kingdom, with bows in our hands, quivers strapped to our backs. And there are none in Berest, or in Serthia, or anywhere in The Crossings, better than we." He gripped his bow, placed it across his lap and grinned.

  "Archers in Berest," Sandrion said, "or in any of the kingdom’s other nine villages are not warriors in the King’s service. Warriors trained not to hunt, but to defend their lives and their King. To kill.”

  “Master Weil competed in the tournament. He is the most skilled—"

  "Master Weil returned home defeated. He speaks to no one of the festival and walks Berest with his head bowed."

  "The competition today will be nothing like what we expect," Sandrion continued. "It will be most difficult. Only a handful of men have done it."

  "I know it. Six. If you do not count Aston."

  Sandrion nodded. "Since Aston’s time, when the tournament began, only six commoners have been knighted as Royal warriors. Six! In seventy years."

  "Seventy-one," Delcan said.

  "So, do we really have a chance?"

  Delcan looked at Sandrion intently. "Warrior or not," he said, "whomever stands against me is still only an archer—a man with a bow and an arrow. Only the Great Spirit knows, I may be the one to best King Orsak’s fighters, and all other archers."

  "You?" Sandrion nearly shouted. "You can only hit a target because my arrow cuts through the air, leaving a clear path to the center for yours to follow." He flashed a wide grin.

  Good, thought Delcan. That’s the friend I’ve known most of my life.

  "Indeed," Delcan scoffed. "The center is marked for all to see, as the farthest point in the target from wherever your arrow lands." He inflated his chest and raised his eyebrows, challenging Sandrion to contradict him.

  “You would have to outdo all those knights who compete if you are to succeed.”

  “Perhaps I shall be kind and help you,” Delcan said quietly, feigning serious contemplation, “so we may both become squires. Only three commoners are chosen, you know.”

  Sandrion threw up his arms. "That stone head of yours will someday bring you trouble," he said and they laughed.

  All seemed well again between them.

  When their laughter subsided, Delcan stood. "We should go."

  He looked at the bow in his hand and again thought of his father. Roimas had carved the bow himself, had cured the hide for the grip and quiver. The leather grip was tight and comforting. The smooth wood had no scars or markings. Delcan lost himself i
n it.

  He blinked and raised his head when he heard Sandrion’s voice.

  "Does he know?" Sandrion repeated.

  Delcan avoided looking at Sandrion, not wanting to see the look on his face, nor the disapproving shake of his head.

  "He knows I’m with you, nothing more. He doesn’t know we left The Crossings.”

  “It has been a day and a half since we left. He certainly knows by now.”

  Delcan shrugged. “I can argue with him when I return, after the tournament."

  "What if you should win?"

  "I thought we already had this discussion. You believe we have no chance, so I guess I should not worry."

  Delcan raised his eyes and found Sandrion looking at him. There were times during their friendship when their eyes said more than the words they spoke to one another.

  Again he lowered his gaze. "My father was once a servant to the King. In his youth, he served King Orsak for five years."

  "You never told me this."

  "He would rather I tell no one. I only learned of it a year ago."

  "Royal service is not shameful," Sandrion said. "By your tone it sounds as if he had committed a crime."

  Delcan shook his head. "Not a crime, although I can’t be certain. He has spoken of it only once and the brooding look he had in his eyes for the whole of that day made him seem guilty of something. He said he could no longer serve King Orsak in good conscience and so fled the castle; that is how he put it. The King believes him dead by now or at the very least that he ran to Norsia as did those who opposed Orsak’s rebellion against King Albetais."

  "The last of those men were hung in Berest Square when we were children," Sandrion said. "I saw a man put to death in the square when I was seven. After the crowd had long gone his body still hung there. His wife stood there for hours with her arms around his knees, weeping. A day later, both were gone."

  Delcan nodded knowingly. Orsak’s foot soldiers had eliminated most of his opposition ten years ago, now only scattered rumors of treason remained.

  "Why would your father worry? A servant means nothing to the King. Your father was not a traitor. Why would Orsak feel he hid with them?"

  Delcan shook his head. "I suppose he can be seen as a deserter. He walked away from his lifelong commitment as a Royal servant. There is more to his story, I’m sure. I never know how to ask him about it, what to ask. If he knew what I was doing today, where I was going..."

  "This is your reason for wanting to compete in the tournament, isn’t it?"

  Delcan caressed his bow, following its shape with his fingers. After a moment he shrugged his shoulders.

  "I don’t want to be trapped in the confined expectation that I am destined to live as my father lives, farming his land, knowing that for every sunrise and every sun fall I’ll breathe the same bland air and have no other choice. For years, he warned me against life outside The Crossings—folks are different, he said, life is harder. Well, I want to live a harder life; meet strange folk. I want to see the world on which he turned his back and maybe understand why. See what life is like inside Castilmont."

  "Only a chosen few live that life, my friend. And neither you nor I have their blood coursing through his body. "

  "And so the tournament is the only way. The only chance to be more than farmers. Think of it, you and I, squires, warriors, knights."

  Sandrion fixed his gaze on him. "I’ll tell no one," he said, "about your father, I mean."

  Delcan glanced back toward the mountains and swung his quiver over his shoulder. The sky was clean of clouds and he focused on the deep blue, struggling to ignore his thoughts of home. "We should go while the day’s light is still young—less travelers on the road."

  Chapter Three

  Only one road spanned the length of the kingdom. The King’s Road—or the Western Road, as it was known before Orsak—began outside the stone hedge of The Crossings in the West; it ended at Castilmont’s gate in the East. Along its winding course, three trails, most of them overgrown with weeds, joined the road. One for each of the regions of the kingdom—Markers End, Surdel, and Twilight Crossings.

  For the first half hour after leaving their camp, Delcan and Sandrion shared that road with no one. It was quiet and the breeze that caressed their backs made their walk pleasant. Delcan wore the longbow across his back; Sandrion carried his loosely in one hand.

  The maturing light of day transformed the castle upon the hill to more than the mass of black clouds from an hour before, when its presence had seemed false, like a poorly made wooden cut-out for a children’s puppet show. The walls and towers stood out against the intensifying blue of the sky, pushing away from it. Although still distant, Delcan could see the lines on the outer wall where the stones met, pressing against one another. Their varying hues— some a dry gray, others a fleshy brown— brought the castle to life with uncompromising realism.

  As the ground rose beneath their feet, Delcan heard the crushing of stones behind him and the unmistakable hollow sound of horseshoes approaching. The grinding of wooden wheels chased the plump sound of the horse steps.

  He turned to look over his shoulder and Sandrion gripped his arm, stopping him.

  Sandrion gave him a look with raised eyebrows that told him to be wary, of anyone. No one knew them here, not even by face; no one here knew their fathers; and no one would be inclined to offer a helping hand to two unfamiliar farm boys were they to see any trouble.

  "It’s okay," Delcan whispered and nodded to tell Sandrion he understood the warning.

  Sandrion let go of his arm as they stepped to the side of the road.

  A man wearing a loose fitting shirt and trousers that were clearly not a farmer’s garb drove the one-horse cart. On his head he wore a wide-brimmed hat that threw soft shadows on his face. As the cart came closer, Delcan noticed the man had no facial hair.

  The cart driver looked at Delcan with a grin on his face as he pulled on the reins and stopped the cart along side of him.

  "Headed for the castle?" the man asked leaning forward from his seat, looking down at both of them. Age lined his face and the black hair flowing from under the hat was streaked with gray.

  Delcan nodded. "Yes. For the festival."

  Sandrion said nothing, holding his bow with both hands.

  "You have nothing to sell," the man said. "At least nothing I can see." He glanced at Sandrion and caught sight of the bow. "Ah. You boys are planning to compete." It was not a question, only a realization that did not seem to surprise him. His grin widened. "Hah! The young never stop dreaming. I’ll tell you boys what I told him," he said and pointed his thumb at the cart behind him.

  Raising his head over the wooden crates, barrels, and burlap sacks, perhaps filled with wheat or corn, stood a young man not much older than Delcan. He wore his blonde hair long, free to serve the will of the wind, and a thin yellow moustache over the smirk on his lips. His skin appeared smooth and unmarked by the sun.

  "There is nothing in Castilmont to fill a man’s heart. It is only a prison and you are fools to believe those"—the man nodded at the bow in Sandrion’s hands—"will offer you freedom."

  He leaned back on his seat, measuring the two farm boys with rapid glances. His grin softened into a smile. Shaking his head with a shrug he said, "I am called Cuen. Jump in the back, I’ll make the last of your walk easy. You don’t mind the company, do you, Stan?"

  The young man in the back shook his head. "Not at all. It’s quite comfortable back here," he said waving them over.

  "You boys climb on in and we’ll be inside the castle walls in no time at all." Cuen shook the reins. The horse began its heavy-footed walk and Delcan heard the man mutter to his horse, "Come on, Stel, and pick up your feet."

  Delcan and Sandrion exchanged glances as the cart lurched into motion.

  Delcan shrugged. He glanced at the passing cart then back at Sandrion. "It is far better than walking."

  "I suppose," Sandrion sighed and reached for the side
of the cart.

  They pulled themselves over the railing, minding not to step on the sacks and crates. Delcan smiled at the young man whom the driver had called Stan, now sitting with his back to the board behind the driver’s seat, his knees up, his arms folded upon them.

  "Hello, Stan. I’m—"

  "Hey," the young man said. "I suggest you both sit. The horse is slow but the ride is bumpy."

  Delcan sat where he stood, his back against a crate; Sandrion sat across from him. Each had his eyes on the third young man in the cart.

  "I am Sandrion, and this is Delcan," Sandrion said.

  "My name is Stanlo, not Stan. The old man either missed half of it when I told it to him, or he didn’t care. From what parts are you folks travelling?"

  "Berest," answered Delcan.

  "The Crossings. I hope you didn’t walk all this way."

  "We did," said Sandrion. "You?"

  "Marlain. I joined the old man in the village square. He didn’t even know I was back here until a half hour later." He looked both Delcan and Sandrion over as if sizing them up. He saw their longbows and the smirk returned to his lips. "You’re archers?"

  Delcan nodded and Sandrion shot him a glance he could not read.

  "So you are my competition." Stanlo pulled a bow from behind one of the crates beside him and placed it across his lap.

  "Hah!" Cuen had turned to look over his shoulder, his hands holding the reins loosely, letting the mare do all the work. "Your competition is not these two, boy. It’s them." He pointed ahead toward the castle and looked back again with that grin of his. "Them, with their armor and polished bows, and steel-tipped arrows. That’s who you should concern yourselves with. They are everyone’s competition these days. And that competition cannot be beaten. But it will be entertaining to watch you try."

  Delcan frowned and shook his head. "Why so sure?" he said to Cuen’s back. "We may accomplish it."

  Cuen laughed heartily— his shoulders shaking. "Fool," he said. "Do not be so eager to fail, for that is surely what you’ll do when faced with the impossible."

  "It is not impossible," Delcan retorted. "Others have done it. Aston—"