by GARY DARBY
I bite down on my lip, knowing what’s to come — one more red and raised Proga scar to match my others. Malo rushes off, leaving me to pull the heavy gate shut and snap the bolt to lock the gateway. I sort of sneak my way through the paddock ways to where the others have gathered as I’ve never seen a knight up close, and this might be my only chance to see one of the King’s Own.
I slip into the paddock where I had been working as Master Boren has the group gathered in earnest conversation just past the pen. I tread softly over to where I had left the implements of my lofty calling, manure rake, shovel, and wheelbarrow.
Under Helmar’s watchful eye, the sprogs have been patiently waiting for my return and as soon as they see me, come running in that stumbling, off-balance and decidedly ungraceful manner of theirs. Naturally, Regal Wind trips over his own feet, crashes into Wind Glow, and both go down in the dust. The sprog’s attempts at running remind me of a cross between a duck and a newborn foal who hasn’t quite found his legs yet.
I pick up my rake, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Master Boren and the others are so intent on their conversation that none of them pay me any attention. I push the sprogs off to one side and go back to work though I do manage to position myself close enough that what I hear almost causes me to drop both rake and shovel.
“Anders,” Master Boren demands of the courier, “are you absolutely sure of this?”
“Aye,” the young man replies, “and the king has sent messengers out to all the Great Houses. I just came from Lord Lorell’s Manor House.”
“Wilders!” Master Boren spits the word out as if he’s bitten into a sour plum. “And this has been confirmed? There’s no doubt?”
The tall and slender knight, his helmet crested with red plumage indicating that he’s a legion officer, steps forward. “I’m afraid so, Master Boren. I received the same information just before His Majesty’s courier arrived.”
“Wilder scum!” Master Boren all but growls. His face is dark, angry but I can also hear a note of anxiety in his voice. And well it should. We all should be anxious if the barbaric, bloodthirsty Wilders have indeed spilled out of the far hinterlands to raid and pillage.
“I thought the Drachen Wars all but put an end to the Wilders?” Helmar questions.
The captain shrugs. “We destroyed most of their lairs, but evidently they’ve grown strong enough over the last twenty seasons to again start raiding again — in strength.”
He pauses long enough to take a deep breath and let his face harden. “Strong enough apparently to destroy the House of Dornmuir.”
“What?” Master Boren sputters. “What are you saying?”
“The House of Dornmuir is no more, Dragon Master,” the knight gruffly replies. “His Lordship and Lady Dornmuir are dead and most of their holdings burned to the ground. Three days ago.”
I all but drop my rake. A Great House destroyed by the loathsome, fierce Wilder dragon riders whose raids out of the nether lands leave nothing but death and destruction in their wake.
“That’s barely a hundred leagues away, Master Boren,” Helmar rumbles, “less than two days by a dragon skyride.”
I turn and stare toward the nearby forested hills and beyond to the higher knolls. The spruce tree’s dull olive coloring is brightened by the birchen tree’s light-green spring leaves. Somewhere far beyond there, a Great House lies burning, perhaps even the villages that often are part of the holdings. And with them, the villagers and the dragon workers lie dead, Wilder arrows buried in their bodies or burned to death by Wilder dragon fire.
To me, there’s only one thing more cruel than Wilders.
And that’s the three emerald dragons whose fierce, heartless dragon breath destroyed my world and left me scarred and torn.
2
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Master Boren turns his head and eyes as if to study the lush, spring-green meadows and beyond them, the thick forest filled with black spruce with an occasional white birchen trunk breaking the dark line. His expression is one of grave apprehension, a look that I’ve never seen before on him though from this moment on, we should all be wearing the same expression.
From what I know, Wilders take few prisoners and those that do fall captive soon come to envy those who died in the initial terrifying onslaught.
“Even now,” Master Boren mutters low, thrusting his jaw toward the dark woodlands, “we may have eyes and ears watching our every move, waiting to ravage Draconstead as they did Dornmuir.”
“I don’t think so,” the knight captain replies. He points toward the set of low hills, and I peer in the same direction. Several crimson dragons, their scales catching the early morning sun as if each were a glowing ember, sail low over the dark-green forest.
“You’ve pulled your patrols in closer,” Helmar states.
“Yes,” the captain answers. “Though it’s been several days since the attack on Dornmuir, I don’t think the Wilders are anywhere close to us. If they were, my knights would have spotted them long before and sounded the alarm.”
I squint to get a better look as except for the legionnaire standing next to Master Boren, I’ve never seen a knight skying on a red before. A pinpoint of light seems to be astride each dragon. It’s sunlight bouncing off the knight’s armor. They’re too far away for me to see their lances or dragon heart bows they carry or their faces, for that matter, but it’s somewhat comforting to have them so close.
“For the time being,” the captain goes on, “it’s the best I can do. However, as soon as we get our additional complement of knights, we’ll be able to stretch the patrols out farther.”
“Give us an extra layer of protection and warning for Golden Wind,” Master Boren states.
“Yes,” the knight replies, “but just so we’re clear, my knight company is stretched very thin. If the Wilders do attack Draconstead, I’m afraid we won’t be able to give you much time to spirit her away.”
I frown at his remarks, another company of knights, in addition to the hundred drog guards we already have? Seems to me it’s a lot of fuss over just one dragon. Yes, yes, I know she’s a golden dragon, the only one in the Northern Kingdom, or the whole world for that matter, and supposedly only the third born in all of history. Still, it only matters if you actually believe all that hokum about how’s she’s a mystical, magical dragon.
Which I decidedly do not. Not for one instant.
Dragons aren’t magical, they’re vile, callous, dumb beasts without feelings, and it’s fate’s utterly cruel joke that the one Drach in all the land who passionately hates dragons, me, has the miserable misfortune to live on a dragon farm. That means that practically every waking moment of my miserable life I’m around the foul beasts.
Why, that even goes for my sleeping moments, because I sleep in the birthing barn with dragon sows who are either preparing to give birth or just recently added a sprog to Lord Lorell’s already large dragon herd.
“Is it still the king’s plan to move Golden Wind to Wynsur Castle?” Master Boren asks.
“Yes,” the knight captain quickly answers. “Another reason for the additional company.”
My ears perk up at that. They’re planning to move the golden away from Draconstead? I like the sound of that. That’s one less dragon that I have to feed, water, clean up after, and well, one less dragon, period. That bit of news is every bit as good as the news about the Wilders is bad. Still, one less dragon in my world is a good thing, a very good thing.
“How soon?” Helmar questions.
“Unfortunately,” the captain begins slowly, “the Wilders’ foray pulled the company we were expecting to join us off in the chase after the raiders. Addleton is the closest legion garrison, but it’ll be at least two, maybe three days before we can expect their company to join us.”
“That long, huh?” Boren mutters with a grimace. “Two or three days that we’ll have to fend for ourselves.”
“What about the drogs?” Helmar questions. “Will
we see more than the hundred we have now?”
The captain shakes his head. “I’ve received no word that more are on their way. Even if the king had sent out another hundred at the first news of the Wilder attack, it would still be close to a fortnight before they arrived.”
Master Boren and Helmar exchange quick, disappointed glances before Master Boren says, “And no doubt our closest neighbors will be unwilling to give up any of their drogs, either.”
“Can’t really blame them, Master Boren,” Helmar replies. “They’ve no doubt heard of the Wilder raid.”
“What if,” Master Boren mutters low, “we took it upon ourselves to sky Golden Wind to Wynsur with your knight company and what dragon workers we have here that can wield a bow or sword?”
The captain shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Dragon Master, but that won’t work. For one thing, we don’t know where the Wilders went, they could be between Wynsur and us. More to the point, from the reports, even if we could arm every dragon worker you have, even combined with my riders, we simply don’t have enough of a force to fight our way through.”
I can clearly see the exasperation on Master Boren’s face, but before he can speak, the knight clears his throat and motions to the courier. “There’s one other thing, Dragon Master.”
“Prince Aster,” the courier begins, “will be meeting with Lord Lorell at his summer Manor House to discuss moving the golden dragon. You, your son, your novice, and the captain here, are to meet them the day after tomorrow at mid-day.”
“That soon?” Master Boren snaps.
“Yes,” the courier replies, “the king is quite anxious about the golden’s safety, and it’s my understanding that he’s tasked Prince Aster with ensuring that all goes well with the move.”
Master Boren runs a hand over his thick, graying beard, his agitation evident. He lets out a long breath and says, “Well, one does not disregard a royal command. Still, it gives us little time to organize here before we have to leave.”
To the legion captain, he orders, “Bring the drogs in closer, have them work the woodland edges and the meadows but leave the stead buildings to my dragon workers.”
He swings around to Helmar. “Arm every worker who can carry one with a sword. Those with some skill with the bow gets one of those as well, along with a full quiver. What we lack here in swords or bows, I’ll send up from the town’s armory. Set up outer patrols around the buildings. For now, cut back on all stead duties — nothing is more important than guarding Golden Wind. Understand?”
“Understood, Master Boren,” Helmar answers.
He lays a hand on Helmar’s shoulder. “You take care of matters here at the stead proper, I’ll swing by the meadows and inform the Meadow Master on my way into town. Once I get to Draconton, I’ll speak with the mayor, see if we can’t organize some sort of village guard alongside our lone Low Sheriff. And, of course, I’ll let my son know of the meeting.”
He starts to turn but then says to Helmar, “Tomorrow eve, join me at Dracon Haus. You’ll sup there and spend the night. We’ll leave at first light on the following morn.”
“Yes, Dragon Master,” Helmar answers.
“Unless the meeting takes overly long,” Master Boren goes on, “it’s my intention to be back as soon as possible. Malo, once Helmar and I leave for the manor you’ll be in charge here until our return.”
“Yes, Dragon Master,” Malo acknowledges, his palms pressed together.
Master Boren turns to the captain and the courier. “Anything else from you two?”
“No,” the knight captain answers. “I’ll be returning to my troop and will see you at the manor.”
With that, the two trot over to their dragons and moments later are skyborne. “Malo,” Master Boren orders, “increase the golden’s feed, I want her well fed for the long journey to Wynsur.”
“Of course,” Malo swiftly replies, “anything else?”
“No, not until we know the prince’s and Lord Lorell’s plans.”
With that, he spins away, taking Malo with him. Helmar starts to turn but notices me on the other side of the fence. He comes through the gate, eyes narrowed as he approaches. “Listening in, Hooper?”
“Uh, just finishing this paddock, Master Novice.”
“Hmm.” He steps closer until his face is so near that I can see the individual hairs of his short beard. “Well, what you heard, you keep to yourself. I don’t want any crazy rumors getting started. Master Boren and I will inform the other workers, not you, understand?”
“But, of course,” I quickly answer, ducking my head low. Helmar turns and just as Master Boren had, studies the dark forest that surrounds Draconstead and which with its dense thickets could easily hide a small army. “Master Novice, may I ask, do you actually think the Wilders would rampage here?”
His answer is a quick, disdainful snort. “Hooper, don’t be stupid. We have the only golden in the world. If you were the Wilder clan chieftain and you thought you had a chance to capture such a prize, wouldn’t you at least try?”
He lets out a long sigh and turns toward the rising sun. “The question is, why would you call attention to yourself, such as attacking House Dornmuir, instead of striking here first?”
He scratches at his stubbly beard. “That doesn’t seem to make sense.”
He abruptly jerks himself upright as if he suddenly realizes his surroundings. “Why am I wasting time talking to you? Get back to work and remember — not a word of this to anyone, or you’ll answer to me.”
“Yes, Master Novice,” I quickly reply. “I’ve never handled a longbow but will I be given a sword too, like the other men?”
Helmar’s curt laugh is biting, and he sizes me up as if I were a side cut of three-day-old meat. “If you were a man like the others, Hooper, and could even hold, much less wield a sword, then yes, but no such word applies to you, so there’s your answer.”
With that, he tromps off, leaving me to watch his broad back and straight, tall form before I glance down at my scarred hand and arm. My face clouds up a bit, and I mutter, “I never realized that it took two hands and arms to swing a sword.”
I open and shut the fingers of my good hand and glare at my own little dragon crowd. “I still have one working arm. If I can rake and shovel dragon manure, I can hold a sword, don’t you think?”
They, of course, don’t answer as dragons, being dumb brutes, can’t speak. Instead, they just waggle their tails a bit and let that pollywog grin crack their ugly faces. “Oh,” I grouse, “what do you know, anyway.”
Just before the sun-high meal, I deliver my constant companions to their respective mothers and hurry to the meal house. As usual, I’m shoved to the very end of the line so that by the time I get to the two cooks, fat Marly, and skinny Larl, what’s left for me is the butt end of a loaf of rye bread, a thin carrot, and a fist-sized hunk of goat’s cheese.
At that, I consider myself lucky, most days even the cheese is gone by the time I get to the serving table. Of course, I don’t stay and eat with the other workers. If I tried, they’d just toss me out on my ear anyway, so I save them the time and me the lumps and make my way back to my little corner of the world in the birthing barn.
At the pile of musty straw and old hay that’s my bed, I reach into a particular spot and my fingers soon find soft fur. A small body wiggles under my touch before two black eyes framed by gray circles and a wet, cold nose poke themselves out of the straw.
I break off a piece of cheese and hold it out. “Here you go, Scamp,” I murmur. Two paws shoot out of the hay and clamp themselves around the goat curd. I smile, watching Scamper devour the cheese.
Scamper is my one and only friend. He’s an orphan. Like me. I found him three seasons back. He was a cold, wet pup hiding and shivering underneath a dripping bog berry bush. Next to him was his mother’s body. From what I could tell, a spear had run her through, most likely from a drog — a brute that’s a cross between a goblin and a troll and which many Great House
s, such as ours, sometimes use as guards against wild dragons, wolves, and other beasts of the forests.
Somehow, she got away from the drog and with Scamper in her jaws managed to escape. She saved her kit but paid the ultimate price. If she hadn’t, the drogs would have gotten the two of them, and I wouldn’t have Scamper, and he wouldn’t have me. My life would be even more miserable than it already is — if that’s possible.
I run my hand over his soft fur again, and he practically purrs. Don’t get the idea that Scamper is a cat. He’s not, nor is he a dog, he’s a . . . Well, he’s just Scamper.
Four squatty legs hold up a stubby, rounded body with gray and brown on top and with soft, cream-colored fur on his belly. His two large ears can swivel frontwards and backward, and his short button nose is always sniffing around for food. Tiny, sharp teeth that seem to be set in a perpetual grin, and two eyes that are deeper and darker than the blackest of nights — put them all together and that’s Scamper.
Han, the previous Barn Master, said I could keep Scamper as long as he didn’t cause trouble and didn’t disturb the dragons. It went without saying that also meant that he stayed away from our band of guard drogs. If not, they would kill him and toss him in their eating pots, just for fun.
But Scamper is a quick learner. He knows not to show himself when the drogs come through the paddocks and the barn areas. And at night, he hunts where they don’t. When it comes to the dragons, well, they actually seem to like having him around.
I break off a piece of carrot for him, and when’s he’s finished, he paws at my tunic and shoves his little face so close that we’re almost nose to nose. Mrrrr? he asks.
I give him a quick scratch under his chin. “Sorry, Scamp, that’s it. Maybe we’ll do better at last meal.”
With that, he dives back under the straw until he’s all covered and I trundle down the broad way that marks the barn’s middle. The birthing barn is exactly that. It’s where the female dragons of Draconstead come to give birth to their sprogs. Yes, dragons are perfectly capable of giving birth in the wild, but Lord Lorell pampers his dragons.
