When the now familiar rush of wind began, the knight strained against his lever. For a brief instant the boulder didn't move at all. Then with a rumbling scrape, it rolled that last few feet to the edge of the slope and toppled from sight.
Aleon knew he had hit his target when the air shook with an enraged roar. He hurried to the edge of the cliff just in time to find himself staring into a very large, angry eye. In that instant he thought he saw in it a spark of recognition among the anger, but everything was happening too fast to be sure. Before the Templar could even react, a gout of flame leaped across the small plateau.
There was no time to stand and run. Aleon rolled away from the searing heat. An intensely hot stream of fire splashed near the young knight, crisping the thin wool of his jerkin against the skin of his back. To the young knights surprise the smell left by the flames was pungent, but more like fine spices than brimstone. By the time he could scramble to his feet the monster was soaring high overhead.
There was a hole toward the back of one wing. His boulder had fallen to one side, missing its head. Rather than striking solid flesh, it had torn through the leathery fabric in the back of the dragon's left wing. As Aleon watched, he could see it was favoring that side during its powerful downstrokes. As a result the monster was circling gently as it climbed higher.
Reaching the relative safety of an overhanging ledge under which he'd hidden his armor, Aleon paused to regain control of his breathing. One side of the overhang was near a gradually deepening cut in the side of the mountain. He had scouted this area thoroughly before beginning to move the boulder. It was well he had, because just as the Templar finished fastening his greaves, he felt the rush of air that warned of the dragon's approach.
Glancing from beneath the ledge, Aleon saw the monster would fly directly over where he stood. When it saw the young knight the dragon let out an understandably annoyed screech and dived. Knowing that the beast would be over him in a heartbeat, Aleon abandoned his gloves and helmet to dive into the shelter of the cut.
Once more the intense heat of dragon's fire made breathing almost impossible. This time, when the narrow pillar of flame ceased the pungent odor was punctuated by the musty scent of cracking rock where the dragon's fire had splashed against a stone wall.
For a long time Aleon did nothing. He could only hope that the dragon thought he was dead. Anything caught in that fiery column would have been incinerated. There was no way the dragon would find anything remaining from such a victim. Dragons had to be used to breathing fire and worrying no more. He hoped that this meant it wouldn't look to confirm its kill. More importantly, he was completely hidden from sight in the cleft. Even if it waited, when he didn't reappear, it might assume he had been killed.
It was far into the night when Aleon risked even a quick glance above the edge of the narrow ravine. It took most of his courage to just raise his head above the edge and look. He half expected to find himself once more eye to eye with the giant monster. It took two attempts before his arms obeyed the command to pull him upward.
Nothing moved among the shadows of the plateau. Knowing how well sound carried in the mountains, the young knight then removed his wooden-soled riding boots before climbing out. Once he was standing on the plateau he considered going to the edge and looking over at the monster's lair, but decided that was tempting the threads of fate to snap once too often. Instead he made his way carefully down the cut and to a much smaller cave he had found earlier. Less than an arm's length across at the opening, it was barely large enough for him to sit upright once inside. But the opening faced another stone wall only a few feet away. He was hidden from anything that was anywhere but directly outside the entrance, a space too small for even the dragon's head.
Once inside the cave Aleon took stock. To his disadvantage he was hungry, sore, exhausted, bruised, burnt, and shivering from the cold, the night chill having arrived with the sunset. His horse and pack were half way down the mountain and unobtainable without risking being seen. And the dragon still lived. What he had gained was having actually damaged the dragon. He had hoped to kill the monster; instead he had just managed to arouse its wrath. If he could get away, Aleon decided that he might as well go back to the village. The same trick wouldn't work again so there was no use staying in the mountains. A few days of rest and real meals should make things clearer. At least Aleon hoped so, because at that moment, the young knight didn't have the slightest idea of what he should do next.
The Patriarch's village was the largest in the valley. That meant it was home to over four hundred people. Most of these were farmers or those engaged in the trades, such as the smiths and merchants, needed to support farmers. It wasn't important enough to have an inn, but one shopkeeper sold home-brewed beer from a large barrel. The tallest building was the temple itself, with a tower that was intended to hold a bell, but only served as a watchtower until the townsfolk could afford to commission one. The tower wasn't very impressive by most people's standards, but it looked wonderful to the battered knight as he led his tired horse into the stable.
It wasn't until he was actually entering the village that Aleon realized how he must look. His clothes were singed brown across the back, half his equipment was damaged or missing, and his formerly profuse brown hair was burnt to within a finger length of his skull in the back. He also looked as tired as he felt.
"I thought you were lost," the Patriarch greeted him, trying very hard to sound cheerful.
"I nearly was," the Templar admitted.
"What happened?"
"I fought the dragon twice," Aleon started to recount the story and then paused at the disbelief evident in the Patriarch's expression.
"Twice it nearly killed me," he hurried on, "and I wounded it, slightly, but failed to kill it."
"We know that," a smith Aleon knew was a close friend of the Patriarch agreed loudly. "It's been seen almost every day between here and the mountains."
The Templar went on to explain how he twice wounded the beast, exaggerating only by leaving out his horse's panic as the cause of his first charge. Telling it all took several minutes during which someone brought him bread, cheese, and beer. While he'd been fed what they would spare by a few farmers on his journey back, the full meal tasted fabulous. When he'd finished the tale, most of those who had gathered drifted off. The Patriarch, who had been surprisingly silent, then furtively gestured for him to enter the chapel.
Once alone the older man placed a friendly hand on his shoulder and gestured to Aleon to sit. The motionless, wooden bench felt good after three days of hard riding in a raspy saddle. Within a few seconds Aleon could feel himself getting drowsy. A few words from the Patriarch later, he was once more wide awake.
"I didn't want to say anything in front of that crowd, but you are probably the cause of the dragon's activity. It was most likely searching for you. I've had reports of it circling over all parts of the valley. The farmers are frightened and I've had to talk swiftly in order to convince a few to stay. The reports of missing cattle and burnt farms have ended though, so perhaps you accomplished something," the cleric observed without gratitude. "Dragons are rarely bested, or even harmed. When you have wounded one, it is best to kill it quickly. Otherwise, you might say that it takes the insult very personally, boy. The only way something as intelligent as a man, that's the size of small castle, and breathes fire, takes being wounded is very personally. It is most likely seeking revenge for your audacity."
Aleon felt his stomach twist and knot. His heart raced with the thought that the colossal monster was intent on evening the score. Somehow he felt assured it wasn't merely going to punch a small hole in his arm, exchanging the proverbial eye for an eye. He swallowed hard to drive the taste of sour beer from the back of his throat.
"Then I'll have to go out and face it again," the young knight said, trying to keep any quaver from his voice. He almost succeeded.
"There's another problem," the Patriarch added almost apologetically. He seemed genuinely sorry to b
e the bearer of more bad tidings.
"Worse than a dragon intent on exacting revenge?" Aleon wondered.
"Possibly," the cleric warned. "Do you remember the young nomad you killed near Orzcrev's steading?"
The Templar realized he hadn't thought much about the dead youth for several days. The dragon had taken up most of his attention. Whenever the thought had arisen, he'd tried to concentrate on something else. He still wasn't sure whether to be appalled or satisfied at his victory. The Patriarch continued.
"You certainly seem to have gotten yourself into a lot of trouble. It seems that was the oldest son of one of the vilest of the Tartar chieftains." The older man shrugged as he spoke. "Word has come that he has sworn vengeance. That's a blood oath among the horse nomads. He can do nothing else until the death is avenged. They could arrive here anytime, but it will likely be another ten days before they search this far."
"Long enough for the dragon to get me first," Aleon observed, feeling weak. He probably sounded as frightened and depressed as he was, but was too weary to care. Somehow his concerns of a few hands of days earlier about proving himself to the Patriarch now seemed unimportant. It appeared that all he could accomplish now was to determine how he would be remembered after he was dead.
That evening, the exhausted knight tried to think of some way to deal with either one of his problems, but his mind was too fogged to allow clear thought. After an appropriate prayer of thanks, and a short request for aid for his survival, Aleon stumbled into his small dormitory and collapsed. He awoke the next morning with an idea that, the more he considered it, was a good one.
Several boys, probably in expectation of getting to fire at his dragon, had been practicing their archery against the wooden wall of his room. Eventually the Patriarch appeared and put them to rout, but the sound of the arrows had inspired a vivid dream. Aleon was on the walls of a great fortress located where the village now sat. A line of nomads mounted on dragons was surging toward the fortress. When they were close Aleon had blown a bugle and hundreds of other Templars had suddenly stood and fired ballistas that had been concealed on the wall. The ballista, he was to later explain several times, resembled a massive crossbow that fired an arrow two feet long with immense force. A bolt had struck each of the attacking dragons with a sound just like the arrows were making on his wall that morning. When each bolt hit, a dragon disappeared.
Remembering the dream, Aleon considered if he had been sent an answer to his prayers for assistance. The longer he considered using a ballista on his dragon, the better he liked the plan. He could recall a text in the Patriarch's library that contained a diagram of a Roman ballista. The smith could make any metal parts needed and there was plenty of good wood nearby. He had even fired one of the ballistas that sat at the corners of the grand priory as part of his training, once.
It turned out to be both harder and easier to construct the weapon than Aleon had expected. The smith was quite happy to attempt the ironwork, once the Patriarch had guaranteed payment. It had taken more persuasion to convince a forester to find and cut the exact woods needed. Finally he had been able to get the village carpenter to assist by agreeing to serve as his assistant until they finished. The knight quickly found that an assistant's tasks included all of the heavy lifting and most of the hard work. That, at least, kept him too busy to brood about vengeful nomads.
It also took time for them to construct the weapon. Each day another message would arrive, often brought by a family of distraught farmers, reporting another sighting of the dragon. It never seemed to do anything, but now was seen everywhere, and the terror was spreading. The Patriarch began hinting that Aleon was using the ballista as an excuse to avoid another encounter, and the knight wasn't really sure if that wasn't true. Occasionally, to add to his nightmares, a merchant would complain about a savage band of nomads he'd seen on the road.
By the fourth day they were ready to assemble the ballista. This aroused a great deal of interest in the village. The weapon was something few had seen. There were very few castles, and less sieges, in their isolated corner of the Worzclaw. It was, without question, the most unusual construction project anyone there had ever engaged in. Under their gaze the carpenter had become energetic, and he pushed Aleon aide to assemble the giant crossbow himself. Not to be outdone, the smith had joined in the assembly. Each time a joint failed to fit well, each would loudly blame the other, but then they worked together to solve the problem. Both were sweaty, but proud, when it was finished. As the last piece was put in place there was an immediate cry for them to try out the weapon. Seeing how proud the craftsmen were of their work, Aleon agreed. Almost forty people braved an unusually hot afternoon sun for the first test.
The weapon stood as high as a man's chest and was as wide as most could reach. The inch-thick, metal bowstring was cranked back using a system of levers that had been copied from the Patriarch's manuscript. While roughly cut, to both Aleon and the carpenter's great relief, everything stayed together when they released the empty bowstring for the first test. Aleon had helped produce five bolts. The Templar tried not to show how concerned he was that the weapon would work. Yesterday there had been reports of a band of heavily armed Tartars riding around villages instead of raiding them. He would have at most a few more days to deal with the one problem before the other arose.
The metal-tipped wooden bolt, when fired, flew steady and straight. It burst through the two-inch-thick board they used for a target, then buried itself almost entirely into the ground some fifty paces further. The villagers cheered. All were sure a single bolt from such a weapon would slay anything. Aleon thought rather sourly that only those who had not personally seen the dragon were impressed. He wasn't sure, but he hoped.
He was happy they had been able to construct the weapon, but now he had to go out and face the dragon again. There was no question that he had been lucky to survive his past two encounters. Chances were he wouldn't live through another. Somehow the thought that it didn't matter, since the nomads would get him later if he did survive, didn't give any solace.
The villagers' enthusiasm extended to helping Aleon load the ballista onto a cart. After an appeal by the Patriarch, four foresters and two former soldiers agreed to accompany the knight to where he expected to confront the dragon. They would help him unload the weapon and prepare it to fire. None would be armored and their arrows and soft iron swords could do little damage to the monster. All agreed that should the dragon attack, they were to flee singly and return to the village. Aleon bravely promised to distract the dragon while they fled. The next morning, as they prepared to leave, word came that a large band of horse nomads had been seen close to the village.
The Templar discovered it was easy to act as if one had courage when you have so little to lose. It was, Aleon decided, as if he had already accepted death. Even the gift by the Patriarch of a new helmet and gloves failed to arouse any emotion. Was this a form of courage? Most likely he was being cowardly, the Templar decided, but couldn't generate any emotional reaction to the conclusion.
The problem was that he got no satisfaction from it. He couldn't even muster any enthusiasm for slaying the dragon. Where everyone else seemed motivated for revenge, he acted out a sense of duty. The creature, though evil, was so magnificent—more beautiful than angels, and maybe more powerful.
Aleon staked his own armor out on a pole as bait. The arms and legs were stuffed with straw, and old boots hung from the pants. Waiting at the edge of the forest fifty paces away, Aleon and the six villagers sat nervously under piles of freshly cut branches. Insects landed and bit, but no one risked so much as a slap. None of them was sure just how keen a dragon's hearing was, and were less than anxious to find out. They had been sitting unmoving for hours and the normal sounds of the woodland had returned. Aleon found himself enjoying the songs of the birds and insects, and regretting how short a time he was likely to have left to hear them. His enthusiasm waned as the day dragged on. By the afternoon he doubted that
the single ballista would kill the dragon. His remaining hope was to wound it seriously enough that it would abandon his valley, the valley he had sworn to protect.
The Templar tried not to think about his own fate. Any time he considered the future, he had to resist the urge to simply flee the area. But his oath held him, and the knowledge that, if frustrated, the Tartar chieftain would exact a bloody revenge on the farmers and villages. Still, while waiting to fight a dragon, any concern about being killed by nomads seemed unimportant. Aleon knew that this time the dragon wouldn't settle for flying off injured. One of them would have to die here, or somewhere similar to here, very soon. The only thing Aleon really feared was that the nomads would arrive to take retribution before he could try the ballista on the dragon. That would be so unfair.
Everyone watched the sky for any sign of the monster. They had seen the giant beast on the horizon flying south early that morning. Twice before it had flown over this road junction on its return. There was a good chance it would do so again.
When the sun was only a hand above the horizon and all seven men had grown stiff, it did. One of the foresters was first to see the dragon approach, soaring high over the edge of the forest some miles away. He whispered for everyone's attention, not trusting that the monster was too far away even to hear a shout. After a few heartbeats the dragon must have noticed the bait. It banked sharply and sailed toward them.
Once he was confident his dragon's attention was centered on his decoy armor, Aleon stood up slowly and made sure the ballista was aimed to a spot just above the armor. The monster still wasn't committed to passing where he could fire the clumsy weapon, and the ballista would be of no use if the dragon spotted it, so Aleon kept one branch hanging awkwardly over his shoulders and left several more leaning against the weapon itself.
The dragon gave a deafening cry as it drew closer. Two of the villagers stirred as they crossed themselves, but to Aleon's relief, none fled. The dragon was close enough now that he could feel the wind pushed ahead of the monster's wings. It made the straw-filled arms of the empty armor move realistically, waving the wooden sword fastened to one glove. To the knight's surprise birdsong rang out from a nearby tree. The small flyer was evidently unaware or cared nothing for the larger one. The Templar tried to concentrate on its melodious sound and not the loud, rapid thumping of his heart.
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