Dragon Fire

by Pedro L. Alvarez

  “The Cave Dwellers.” Delcan looked at Sandrion. “You found Branis. Has he come?”

  Aria smiled at Delcan. “Yes. She has.”

  “She…?”

  “Aria,” Sandrion said. “She is Branis.”

  Delcan turned first to Aria then back to Sandrion and shook his head. “I do not understand.”

  “Yes. I am Branis,” said Aria, “The rebel leader,” and rolled her eyes.

  Delcan stared at her a moment, not incredulous but surprised. Then, as he thought of it, he suspected it should not be of any surprise at all that she had done it. She had made her dream reality even when there were no foundations upon which she could build it. That driving force within her was apparent even in the way she walked. He had always seen it but had not identified it. Now, he knew, as it materialized in the image of Aria standing before him with sword in hand, that she was the kingdom’s future—its hope. He saw it in her eyes; in her posture; in her heart.

  Suddenly his father’s voice spoke to him from a not-so-distant dream. You are not the one, Roimas had said. You are not the one.

  “Delcan.” Wildon’s voice came from a far away place. “We must go. Now.”

  Delcan came back to the dungeon with a blink and a shake of the head. He nodded. “Lead the way,” he said, keeping his eyes on Aria.

  The princess walked ahead of them toward the door. Sandrion and Wildon helped Delcan. His legs were weak but life had returned to them.

  “Hey,” a voice cried out from behind them. “What about us? Are you not going to set us free?”

  Sandrion let go of Delcan’s arm tentatively, afraid his friend would be too fragile to stand on his own. When Delcan assured him he would be fine, he headed toward the cells.

  “No.” Wildon stopped him. “They will die if we release them and leave them here.”

  “Then we must take them with us,” Sandrion argued.

  “We cannot. If we try to do so we shall never make it out alive ourselves.”

  “But we cannot leave them.”

  “We shall return for them--all of us; as an armed force.” Wildon looked at the cells on either side of him. “Do you hear me?” he shouted at the men standing behind the bars. “We shall come to free you, soon—to free all of Paraysia.”

  Wildon turned to Aria. “Take Delcan. Sandrion and I shall deal with the guards on the other side of the door.”

  “I can stand,” Delcan told Aria as she reached for his arm. “But I welcome your hand in mine.”

  “Stay alert, you two,” Wildon said over his shoulder and headed for the door.

  As Wildon reached for the door handle, the door creaked open. Aria pulled Delcan back to the right side of the chamber, their backs against the wall. Sandrion and Wildon did the same.

  As the door opened inward Delcan immediately recognized the boots and the dark green trousers that entered the dungeon.

  Malden stepped into the dungeon with Stanlo behind him. As the large door cleared his line of sight, it first revealed the prisoners who, usually subdued and lingering away from the iron bars, were standing at the doors of their cells. Even in their silence there was an eager liveliness to them. Malden noticed it immediately in the eyes of the ones closest to the door.

  As the door opened fully, Malden saw the bodies of the four slain guards on the gallery floor.

  “Guards,” he shouted behind him and ran into the chamber, drawing his sword. He reached the first of the torture machines and turned around to survey the room.

  Stanlo stood at the doorway, his sword also drawn, hesitant and waiting for Malden to give him an order. The two guards who had been standing in the corridor outside the door stepped forward and flanked him at either side.

  Standing over the dead bodies of the guards Malden searched with his eyes the chamber in front of him and behind. As he glanced toward the circular room at the far end of the dungeon he realized Delcan was no longer in the contraption where he had left him unconscious.

  “You,” he said pointing at the guards standing on either side of Stanlo. “Check the pit.”

  As the guards ran down the gallery to the circular room Stanlo walked around the dead bodies toward Malden. “What—?” he began, then stopped as he caught Malden’s eyes widen while looking over Stanlo’s shoulder. The dungeon door creaked closed.

  “There they are,” Malden yelled and pushed past Stanlo, who turned on his heels and followed the head of the guards, not quite sure whom he was chasing.

  Delcan, Aria, Sandrion and Wildon stood with their backs pressed against the stone wall, the large door concealing their presence.

  They watched Malden step into the chamber then run to the fallen guards. The prisoners stood in silence, none betraying them. They saw the two guards posted outside rush in and bolt toward the pit room in response to Malden’s bellowing orders.

  When Stanlo walked to Malden’s side, Wildon nudged Delcan forward and they snuck out from behind the door. It was likely they would be seen stealing away so their timing was of the essence. If a hint of movement flickering in the corner of Malden’s eye did not betray them, the creaking of the closing door certainly would. The heavy door met its jamb with a whine and a thump behind them.

  Delcan quickened his pace from careful steps to a tentative run. The stiffness in his legs shot lightning bolts of pain up to his hips. He limped but at least was able to keep pace with Wildon who led them down the corridor. Aria had her arm wrapped around Delcan’s and she pulled him along, hoping not to be the cause of him losing his balance. Sandrion followed close behind Delcan.

  As they rounded the tunnel’s first corner, Delcan looked over his shoulder, something which at the instant he did he regretted. Malden’s mad face and his drawn sword were much closer than he had expected. He could see the beads of sweat on the man’s brow and the swirling reflections of the torches on the blade of his sword. It was clear they would not outrun him. The inevitable had arrived.

  Sandrion turned back as well and yelled forward to Wildon, “They are at our backs. And I mean, truly upon our backs.”

  Wildon turned around and pushed Delcan and Aria past him. “You two keep moving.” He stood beside Sandrion. “Brace yourself, squire” he whispered. “It is for this you have been trained.”

  Malden stopped ten feet from them; Stanlo beside him, nervously switching his sword from one hand to the other. Malden waved his hand and the guards behind him lunged at Wildon and Sandrion. Their swords cut through the air in wide arcs.

  Delcan stopped running and turned. “We cannot let them battle alone,” he said as the swords began to clash. “They are outnumbered. And I can fight.” He pulled free of Aria’s hold and pulled his sword out of its scabbard. His sore shoulders and arms tightened with a dull pang and he effectively shoved the knowledge of it out of his mind.

  “You can hardly run, much less engage in combat,” complained Aria.

  Now it was he who grabbed her arm and pulled her close to him. “I cannot let them fight, and perhaps die, for me. I cannot stand back and watch. I must fight with them.” He stared at her dark brown eyes and kissed her; she responded to his pressing lips. It was a short kiss, yet full of passion.

  Aria drew the arming sword tied at her own waist. “Then I shall fight alongside you.”

  As the two of them moved behind Sandrion and Wildon, Delcan heard other steps approaching. He turned around and found two more guards approaching around the bend toward them. The men headed down the corridor at a casual pace, perhaps with the intent of relieving the two who had been guarding the dungeon door. They stopped as if they had suddenly taken notice of the clash of metal against metal. After staring at Delcan and Aria, studying them for a moment, they broke into a run with their own swords drawn.

  “Your Highness,” one of them gasped as they approached and saw Aria standing before them. They looked at her perplexed, uncertain of whether she would be a victim, an ally, or a foe in whatever was occurring here.

  Malden and Stanl
o pushed their way past Sandrion and Wildon who were still engaged in combat.

  “Do not hesitate,” Malden yelled at the two guards. “Take her into the dungeon.” He pointed at the guard standing in front of Aria. “And you,” he said to the other, “kill him.”

  Delcan moved toward the guard facing him. Not wanting to be on the defensive when his legs, his arms, his entire body, were working against him, he charged at the guard with a wide swing of his sword. The man, tall and muscular, twice Delcan’s weight, blocked the strike and returned it with a lunge aimed at Delcan’s side. Delcan deflected it and stabbed at the guard with a decisive thrust that was just as easily blocked.

  Aria stood her ground, prepared to defend against the guard who looked at Malden questioningly then stepped toward her. As he drew closer, Aria gripped the hilt tighter. The princess raised her sword and pointed it at the guard. “Do not step closer; I am prepared to fight.”

  The man snickered and raised his own sword as if to humor a presuming girl who played the role of a warrior in a boys’ make-believe game.

  “What are you waiting for, fool?” Malden growled. “Take her.”

  The guard reached for Aria’s arm and she drove the point of the sword blade into his stomach; it drew blood and caused him to step back. The guard’s expression of amusement changed to one of sudden irritation. He raised his sword again and struck hers with it, aiming to disarm her. Aria held fast to the weapon and countered his attack with one of her own aimed at his side. The guard stopped it, growling as irritation grew into fury. The blades clashed once again. Although the weight of the sword she held in her hand, and the strength of the guard’s strikes, were starting to take their toll on Aria, she fought harder.

  Stanlo stepped toward Aria with the intention of stopping the fight. Regardless of what her insubordinate attitude and actions, he loved her. In his way he loved her and he would not let her be harmed.

  Malden gripped him by the shoulder and pulled him back. “That is not a good idea.”

  “He will kill her,” Stanlo said in what Delcan would have considered a rare display of humanity.

  Malden looked Stanlo in the eyes. “Then, so be it.”

  Stanlo stared at Malden and a streak of disappointment ran down his back. His ambition for power, that which would place him in a position of social rewards and riches, included his marriage to the princess. Without her the fulfillment of his dream would not be complete.

  He heard a groan and the sound of a body falling. He turned around and saw Aria standing above the guard with the sword in her hand, blood covering and dripping from the blade. She turned to Stanlo with an expression he could not quite read. He looked past her and saw Delcan walk up to meet her. The large guard with whom he had been fighting lay on the corridor floor as well.

  “There is the one standing before you and her,” Malden said to Stanlo, leaning over his shoulder. Stanlo could feel the man’s rancid, warm breath stroke his ear. “Do you think, boy, that you can get rid of him?”

  Stanlo nodded. His odium for Delcan had grown from the moment Delcan’s arrow struck the center of that target at the tournament months ago. Delcan had not only performed better than he at the Flarian Festival, he now seemed to have bested Stanlo in every way. Delcan’s desire for Aria’s love provided the final fuel for the combustion that had been building within him. And now, here he was, with the prospect of finally being rid of Delcan once and for all.

  “I shall take care of her,” Malden pointed at Aria. “He is all yours.”

  “Do not harm her,” Stanlo said turning to Malden. The head of the guards only glared back at him and grinned.

  The duel between Delcan and Stanlo was brief. Its brevity had as much to do with the way in which Stanlo approached Delcan—swinging his sword without aim, hoping to find a target upon which to fall—as it did with the weakness in Delcan’s legs. Stanlo followed the arc of his sword with a loud cry. Delcan stepped into the swing as Wildon had taught him and raised his own sword in a circular motion that intersected Stanlo’s attack.

  The swords clanked.

  Before Malden could wrap both of his arms around Aria one of the two squires lay on the stone floor, dead.

  Delcan felt the driving force of Stanlo’s strike in the vibration that travelled from his wrists up his arms. He was caught in mid-step and the lack of strength in his legs caused him to lose his balance. He fell back against the wall. His shoulder struck the large stones that lined the tunnel. Delcan raised his weapon yet again as Stanlo swung at his head. Even in his current state—his body weak from hours of torturing, his head throbbing with pain, his arms and legs nearly numb, his entire being out of balance—Delcan could read Stanlo’s telegraphing swings. He could see them travelling toward him as if at a slow pace; the way his father had swung the wooden toy sword at him when he was only five years of age. The training in which Sir Wildon had instructed him suddenly came to him and Delcan realized Stanlo had just broken the first rule of combat: never loosen the reins on your emotions during battle.

  Letting one hand go of the sword hilt, Delcan reached behind him for support. The wall felt dry and unforgiving, unwelcoming. He thrust the blade forward. He did this without intent, letting the steel perform its duty without him while he tried to take in a quick breath.

  As Delcan pointed the sword out in front of him, Stanlo stepped forward, looking to overrun the stumbling Delcan.

  The blade ran through Stanlo’s midsection as an arrow penetrating a haystack. The squire opened his mouth as if to scream and nothing but a silent gasp came out. He looked at Delcan, fazed, disbelieving. Stanlo dropped his weapon and staggered backward—Delcan’s short sword sticking out of him like the last, forced joke of a dying jester.

  Delcan pressed both of his hands against the wall and watched Stanlo fall, rattled by the image that would later resurface in his mind as the clearest memory of those days. His stomach turned and tears welled in his eyes. His shoulders shook as he began to weep, silently, with no one around him being aware of it. He knew not consciously the reason for this sudden flow of emotion, but in the depths of his mind, in the caverns of his heart, he hurt for the loss of another who was like him. He hurt for Stanlo for whom he held such dislike but who had still been a fellow squire—a boy so eager for manhood yet unaware that in many ways he was not yet ready for it.

  “Stupid girl,” Delcan heard Malden’s voice and turned, looking for Aria. He found her struggling with Malden’s grip. In her freed hand she still held fast to the sword. From the side of the head of the guard’s neck a gaping wound spouted the essence of life.

  Malden tightened his grip on Aria’s arm and the princess grimaced. Still, the firmness on her face did not waiver. She thrust the short sword at Malden. He twisted her arm, manipulating her body, turning it away from him. As he avoided her attack, he struck her on the face with the back of his hand. Aria staggered back, but yet she held on to the sword.

  As Malden stepped toward her again, Aria swung the sword across his stomach in a rapid sweep. He pushed his palm against his midsection and kept moving toward the princess.

  “Stand where you are,” Delcan said, pushing a blade against Malden’s side. Malden turned to face him. Delcan was hardly able to stand; the sword trembled in his weakening hands. Tears still streamed down the corners of his eyes.

  Malden grinned. Dragon fire-red blood ran down his neck, the wound hardly visible.

  “Now, now, young man. Do you truly believe there is enough strength in you to take me on?”

  Delcan shook his head.

  “Perhaps,” a voice said from behind Malden. “But in the case his strength falters ours is perfectly fine.”

  Malden looked over his shoulder at Wildon and Sandrion standing behind him, each with a weapon pointed at him. He was unable to stifle the smile that formed on his face. It would seem peculiar to anyone else but Malden felt a certain sense of satisfaction. Satisfaction at knowing that it would take more than two squires—even i
f one of them were nothing more than a bag of bones holding a sword—a knight, and a delusional princess to overpower him.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Roimas arrived at the castle, pulling his horse by the reins. The night had matured and the moon was high above him; the torches along the castle were lit.

  He had driven the horse hard in his ride from Berest, cutting the two-day journey nearly in half. The horse, like Roimas, was old and worn from years of farming. As Roimas pulled, it breathed in shallow breaths.

  The guards at the gate stopped him with a dramatic change in their posture. The slouching shoulders of the two guards who stood at either side of the castle entrance settled back and one of them raised his hand in a silent demand to halt. Roimas glanced around him; all crossbows atop the wall had been pointed in his direction.

  As the guard lowered his hand and opened his mouth to speak, Roimas said, “I demand to see Malden.” The assurance in his voice startled the guards. Its tone of nobility, its smooth yet heavy resonance commanded obedience.

  The guards glanced at one another, then at Roimas. He wore a torn cloak that had suffered many days of rain and continuous torture from the sun. It reached to his knees. Under the cloak he wore a pair of faded pants adorned with permanent soil stains. The guards’ shock at such authority coming from an old man in farming garb hung above them in a cloud of silence and Roimas fought the urge to grin. A small chuckle interrupted that silence. It came from the guard whose hand, whose king-given authority, had stopped Roimas at the gate.

  “By the looks of you, you have no right to demand anything,” the guard said, “much less to see the Head of the Guards himself.” The man turned to the other guard standing beside him. “I do not think Malden would take the time to see this peasant.” Laughter followed from atop the castle wall.

  Roimas nodded and smiled to himself. “Once he knows who I am, that gate will open.”

  More laughter.

  At the platform atop the castle wall Roimas saw two knights step out, perhaps drawn out by the laughter.

  “And who should we say is calling?” an amused guard asked of Roimas. “Which lordship do you command?” Laughter erupted again and spread.