Dragon Fire

by Pedro L. Alvarez

  "Aston? That was a different time," Cuen interrupted. He pulled on the reins, bringing the mare to a stop. He turned his body halfway around to face them. One of his legs hung down from the seat into the cart with his boot dangling beside Stanlo’s head. "The kingdom was a different place. Even the landscape around us."

  He looked at the right side of the road and pointed past the trees toward the wild brush. "You see these fields, on either side of the road, beyond the trees? They were once part of Watcher’s Hollow."

  "Watchers...?" asked Sandrion.

  "Watcher’s Hollow," Stanlo responded. "Have you never heard of it?"

  Sandrion shook his head.

  Stanlo hissed, making no effort to hide his surprise at Sandrion’s lack of knowledge. "It was a village that stood here in Marcius’s time," he explained. "Like an extension of the castle itself. Most of the servants lived there."

  Delcan glanced at Sandrion.

  "What happened to it?" Sandrion asked.

  "Destroyed," Cuen answered. "When Orsak and his rebels rushed the castle. Watcher’s Hollow was his first victory. After the war, ‘the rebellion,’ whatever you want to call it, nothing remained but these fields covered with flarians." Cuen looked at the land around him and his eyes shone with sorrow.

  "Flarians?" Delcan asked. Both Stanlo and Cuen looked at him. They glanced at Sandrion then back at him.

  "Have you boys no education?"

  Sandrion shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "We’re educated." He seemed embarrassed.

  "By what, the sheep you herd?" Stanlo said, the smirk on his face radiant.

  Delcan looked at Stanlo and found himself disliking him. The seemingly constant smirk on Stanlo’s lips portrayed a confident air about him that bordered on vexing. They were farmers, he and Sandrion, and folks in Berest hardly concerned themselves with much else.

  This thought reminded Delcan of why he had left—to learn about things such as flarians; about villages that were no more; to learn about the kingdom. And he was suddenly eager to reach Castilmont— to see it, to taste it. For the moment, the haunting shadows of dreams were forgotten.

  Cuen shook his head before speaking again. "It is a shame what has become of this kingdom." His voice, low and solemn, had none of Stanlo’s mockery. "It was once a grand place; the sort of place of which the far reaches of the world would tell tales. Now, even its youth cares little for it. It seems the only view of the world that matters is the one visible before your eyes, at this very moment."

  Delcan resented the comment and opened his mouth to say so, but thought better of it. He sighed instead.

  Cuen raised his eyes to them. "The flarian is a flower, or rather, I should say, was. Shaped like an upright diamond, it was the size of a man’s hand when closed." He held his hand out to them in a loose fist. "And as wide as a man’s shoulders when open." At this, he opened the fist, stretching out his fingers, looking at his empty hand.

  Delcan watched Cuen, fascinated; a boy lost in a bard’s tale.

  "The color of the sunset in a sky filled with clouds," Cuen continued, "and it gave off an aroma that would pacify dragons." His eyes glittered. Delcan could not resist a smile. "It bloomed only for one day after the last of the cold winds had blown past the island. For the rest of the year, it was an unimposing plant with leaves of gentle green."

  Then, the sparkle died in Cuen’s eyes.

  "King Orsak had the fields plowed early in his reign to gain a clear view of the approach to the castle, to protect him from his enemies. A delicate flower, the flarian. Not one returned the next season. Not a one. In time, the plant died altogether."

  "The Flarian Festival," Sandrion said, mostly to himself.

  "That’s right. The Flarian Festival was traditionally held after the flarians bloomed. A clear sign that winter had passed. The kingdom celebrated, farmers and nobles alike. This was before the last, true king; in the time of the dragons."

  "Dragons," Stanlo scoffed. "I doubt they lived at all."

  "One still does," said Delcan. Stanlo snickered.

  "Aye. One does," Cuen agreed, nodding enthusiastically.

  Delcan watched Stanlo’s face turn up to look at Cuen.

  "Beyond the Twilight Mountains." Cuen returned Stanlo’s gaze. "Folks in the outskirts of The Crossings, near the forest, are said to often hear his groans."

  Stanlo’s eyes widened and Delcan felt a twinge of satisfaction. He, himself, had yet to hear such roars but kept this close to his breast.

  "You suggested the festival had changed," Sandrion once again called upon Cuen’s attention. "Isn’t it still a celebration of Spring?"

  "For commoners, yes." The grin returned in full effect. "Nobility hardly cares anymore whether the chill in the air pushes on to the north or lingers; as long as the fire in their hearth continues to burn. But the tournament, the tournament did not become part of it until Marcius became king. You have heard of Marcius?"

  Both Delcan and Sandrion nodded and Cuen leaned forward, swinging the other leg into the cart.

  "Under his reign, Paraysia knew peace, the longest period of peace the kingdom has ever seen, and so his knights were not often put to the test. Having no battlefields to conquer, Marcius used the flarian celebration to showcase the martial skills of his soldiers. The knights competed in jousts against one another and an archery competition where the winner was loudly celebrated. It all served as entertainment for us, and a few weeks of training for them. And then, entered Aston, the son of a blacksmith. With him, it all changed. The festival’s finest hour."

  "Hey," a voice shouted from one side of the cart. "Move out of the way. You’re blocking the entire road."

  Delcan turned and saw another cart push its way past them, its wheels struggling to climb over the roots of the trees along the side of the road.

  "Pass around me," Cuen shouted back. He and the man in the other cart exchanged an angry gesture Delcan had never seen.

  Delcan glanced behind them and saw other travelers in carts and on horseback approaching from the west. Looking ahead, people speckled the road toward the castle. He had forgotten for a moment they stood in the middle of the kingdom’s only road.

  "Aston was the first commoner to ever challenge the King’s knights," Stanlo said looking at Delcan as if Cuen had not been interrupted.

  "Everyone knows that," Delcan responded. "Even folks from far off in The Crossings."

  "He did more than that," Cuen added. "Aston entered the tournament—the joust meant only for knights—as a peasant and won the admiration of King Marcius himself with his bow. He so impressed the King with his skill that Marcius offered him a place as squire to Sir Roen, his greatest knight. Aston became the first man of common blood to follow in the steps of nobility."

  Cuen turned to Sandrion as if to give him his full attention. He had told this tale before and Delcan watched as the old man engaged his audience of three individually.

  "From then on," Cuen continued, "the festival changed. Its focus became the celebration of the tournament, the test of skill between knights and commoners. King Marcius opened it for all men of the kingdom— the sons of tradesmen, fishermen, and farmers— so that each may demonstrate his worth as a squire, as did Aston."

  "That worth is not easily proven," Stanlo said, glaring at Delcan again, challenging him with his eyes. "You need surpass all other competitors, not to mention the knights, beat them all at their greatest skill."

  "Aye. In seven decades only six other men have ever achieved it." Cuen pointed a finger at Stanlo, then Delcan and Sandrion. "None since Orsak became king." He shook his head and sighed. "I fear I will not live to see the day—"

  Cuen raised his head and straightened his shoulders. At once, as if snapped into reality by Cuen’s silence, the rumbling of trotting horses became audible. Delcan and Sandrion turned to look over their shoulders. Two men in breastplates and helmets approached on horseback. Scarlet cloaks fluttered behind them.

  "The King’s guard
s," Cuen whispered. He turned around on his seat, grabbing at the reins. His right hand dashed under his shirt and stayed there.

  Delcan’s heart raced.

  Foot soldiers were a common presence in village life— protecting the local nobles and their interests, intimidating peasants. A brusque group in rough garb meant for the hardships of battle and the slopping of blood. There was no sense of grace in their appearance, nor in their manner. The men who now approached the wagon, however, were of an entirely different breed. Royal knights. Soldiers of the highest order; protectors of the King himself. Men who stood and walked with their shoulders back and their chins up. Men whose lives were meant to serve a greater purpose than any other in the kingdom.

  The knights slowed as they approached the cart and called out to Cuen.

  Delcan noticed Cuen’s hand, concealed by the shirt, clenched in a fist at his hip.

  A dagger, he thought.

  He leaned over to Sandrion. "What are we—?"

  "Shh."

  "You are blocking the King’s road," said one of the two knights. He sat rigidly on the saddle, his ankles down on the stirrups. His face, stone serious, had a peculiar shape in the way the scarlet helmet framed it at the temples.

  "There is sufficient room for passage," said Cuen. "I am on my way now."

  The knight led his horse past the front of the cart, throwing wary glances at the three young men in the back. He stopped at Cuen’s right side. His companion quietly flanked the cart on the left. Cuen’s hand moved lightly under his shirt and Delcan tensed up.

  The knight gazed at Cuen, seeming not to notice the hidden hand. "It is best to keep one’s wit to oneself when speaking to a Royal guard," he said. "You have much to sell at the festival, I see." He glanced at the cart. His eyes fell on Delcan for a moment and the knight grinned. "Shameful if it were confiscated for suspicion."

  "Suspicion of what?" Cuen nearly growled.

  "Of endangering the King. The festival is well attended and of late, with talk of rebels to the South once again, we must never be too careful." The knight’s grin filled his whole face.

  Cuen became silent. The two men glared at each other for a moment. A long, tense moment.

  "Move it along, now, old man."

  Cuen turned to the road ahead and shook the reins, keeping his right hand under his shirt. "Onward, Stel."

  The cart crept forward. The knight, still grinning, followed Delcan, Sandrion, and Stanlo with his eyes. "Good luck, boys," he said, and even though it hadn’t seemed possible, the grin on his face widened.

  As the two knights trotted past the cart a moment later, Cuen said, "Ironic when one gives it thought," shaking his head. "Aston opened for commoners the door to a new life; his son took that life away and locked us all in a prison."

  He snapped the reins and Stel protested. She turned her head to glance at her master. Her pace did not quicken.

  "Now, none of us, not even those who lived it, remembers life without walls. Or the fields of blooming flarians."

  "His son?" Sandrion asked.

  "Orsak. Aston’s son is Orsak, our King." Cuen nodded at the silence that followed as if expecting it from them. "A fact hardly told by us of old. Or more so a suppressed one."

  Ahead, the entrance to the castle drew near. It was crowded with loaded wagons, horses and travelers on foot. Beyond the castle lay the Valley of the Sun, nestled in the lesser hills.

  Chapter Four

  Sitting atop the highest of the eastern hills, at the end of the King’s Road, the castle’s altitude was its greatest defense. It required no moat, and so the road itself reached into the fortress through the main gate.

  Where it met the castle’s entrance, the road was wide enough for three farming carts to pass side by side. It narrowed as its crushed stones blended into the earth of the gatehouse floor. Guards monitored the flow of entry, allowing passage only to one peasant at a time.

  Cuen brought Stel to a stop. "It will take long," he said without turning around. "Festival—" he shook his head—"the only time ordinary folk can pass through that gate and the number grows every year."

  Delcan stood on the cart, mesmerized. He gazed up at the castle with unblinking eyes, turning his head from right to left slowly as he took it all in. Sitting beside him, Sandrion leaned back on his hands, looking up while Stanlo rested on one knee with his quiver over one shoulder and his bow in hand.

  The castle’s outer wall rose as if grown from the stony ground to the cloudless blue. Wide blocks of stone packed tightly together encompassed most of Delcan’s field of vision but for a thin span of sky above the barrier. The wall stretched from either side of the castle gate with a round watchtower at each corner. It surrounded the entire summit of the hill, framed by a two-yard strip of the greenest grass Delcan had ever seen. Crossbowmen stood between the battlements along the top. They wore coats of chainmail and helmets. Unlike the knights Delcan and the others had encountered on the road, the men atop the wall had no cloaks on their shoulders, yet they were more than mere foot soldiers—a fact easily discerned by the stance in which they stood with the sun behind them. Under the pinnacle roofs of the watchtowers, Delcan saw the silhouettes of other guards behind narrow windows.

  As the cart advanced again, Delcan sat. He looked over Cuen’s head at the guards who checked over everyone who passed through the castle gate.

  Across from Delcan, Stanlo sat back down and grumbled as he kicked a sack of wheat. He began to sharpen his arrowheads with a sharpening rock, apparently unimpressed by the King’s castle, concerned more with the current test of patience. Perhaps sensing a pair of eyes upon him, Stanlo raised his head and looked at Delcan.

  "What? Amazed by it all?" he said.

  Delcan did not respond, only smirked at the mocking tone.

  "It is impressive, I suppose. If you do not know any better."

  "And you do?" Delcan shook his head.

  Stanlo raised the arrow at eye level and gazed at the sharpened point, admiring his work. "I have lived in the castle’s shadow my entire life. From Marlain there is no way of looking east without seeing its towers. Never have I been impressed by it. But twice I have been inspired." Stanlo turned around for the first time and looked up at the fortress. When he turned back he was smiling.

  Delcan did not want to converse with him. He found his manner pestering and felt instantly defensive when Stanlo addressed him in any way. But he was now intrigued and it was difficult not to want to know more about him.

  "Inspired? How?"

  "The same way you were moved to come here." Stanlo looked hard into Delcan’s eyes. "I, like the two of you, like the rest of the men who will stand beside us on the tournament field, want a change of life. And this is the only way I know how to make it so." Looking away, he placed the sharpened arrow in his quiver and retrieved another. "I came close a year ago," he said in a low voice. "Today, I won’t fail. I will finally turn my back on Marlain."

  Delcan hated to admit it, but he felt a certain kinship with Stanlo at that moment. It had nothing to do with who Stanlo was. Only with the world in which they were both coming of age.

  He turned to Sandrion, who had been curiously quiet since they had approached Castilmont, and found him gazing up at the towers. He had an odd expression on his face. Delcan thought he saw trepidation and leaned closer to him.

  "Sandrion?"

  When he did not respond, Delcan put a hand on his shoulder.

  The cart came to a sudden halt. Cuen pulled hard on the reins and Delcan, who had been half standing, fell to his knees. He glanced at Stanlo and saw him turning to glower at Cuen.

  "Hey," Stanlo shouted, "Was that necessary?"

  "Easy, girl." Cuen ignored the boy and spoke to Stel. The mare seemed restless in the crowd that waited outside the gate.

  Sandrion took hold of Delcan’s arms and helped him back into a sitting position. The color had returned to Sandrion’s face.

  "Are you—?”

  "All is well,"
Sandrion said and forced a smile. "That foolish dream. It keeps resurfacing."

  Delcan nodded. He had mostly forgotten his own dream of the castle. "Dreams are powerful," he said, echoing words his mother had often spoken. Windows to the past and to the future, she had taught him. Returning Sandrion’s smile in kind, Delcan hoped to mask the concern for his friend, and for himself.

  "Quiet," Cuen spat out in an agitated whisper over his shoulder. "We are nearly at the gate."

  Ahead, four guards managed the entry into the castle, checking the clothing and asking questions of each man, each child, and every woman. Two other guards stood by at either side of the gatehouse, only their eyes moving. Delcan watched as a group of men with baskets on their backs passed through the gate after having to leave one of their baskets behind.

  "Move on," a guard yelled, motioning Cuen forward with his hand.

  As the cart passed under the portcullis hanging above the entrance to the gatehouse, Delcan looked up at the iron spikes, expecting at any moment for them to fall upon him. An iron chain with thick links held the portcullis in place. Delcan followed the chain with his eyes to the left side of the gatehouse where it was wrapped around a winch like a snake squeezing the life out of its prey. Against the wall, with a hand on the crank, stood a fifth guard, nearly covered in shadow. On the opposing side stood the same contraption with another guard beside it. This chain led to a portcullis hanging at the other end of the gatehouse above the entrance to the courtyard. Delcan realized that once those two shadow-cloaked guards heard the order, each portcullis came down, trapping any man who stood inside the gatehouse, with no way into, or out of, the castle.

  "They can close one or the other," Stanlo spoke and Delcan turned to him, "or both. Any other time of year, the front portcullis remains closed, raised only for expected guests. No one enters or leaves Castilmont without his permission. But today, of course, is festival," Stanlo stretched his arms out at either side in grand theatrics, "and all are welcome. Until sundown, that is."