Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy)

by Lexi Revellian

  TORBREK

  …and the Dragon Variation

  Part 1 of The Torbrek Trilogy

  by

  Lexi Revellian

  Published by

  HOXTON PRESS

  2 Hoxton Street, London N1 2PG

  Copyright

  ©

  Lexi Revellian

  2010

  All rights reserved

  While the places in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters and events are fictitious.

  PROLOGUE

  Poised on the balls of her feet, absolutely still and intent, Tor faced Attalor, feeling the unfamiliar weight of her new sword; at thirteen, she was just big enough for an adult one. Rain still dripped from the trees edging the glade, though the sky had cleared. She was wet to the skin, her threadbare clothes offering scant protection.

  Stealthily, Attalor edged sideways, trying to get her to go where the shafts of sun would shine in her face. He was a foot taller than Tor, with a warrior’s strength and speed. His eyes under fierce brows never left hers. She stood her ground, knowing he was choosing his moment to strike, and she must be ready. She grasped the hilt in tense fingers. Now! As his blade came down, hers rose to meet it, blocking his thrust and riposting.

  He stepped back, lowering his weapon, and broke into a smile. “Well done, Tor. Soon you’ll be too fast for me. That’s enough for today.”

  “Let me try again. I can do better, I know. I’m just getting the feel of it.”

  Attalor laughed. “We’ve been here since dawn, I need another breakfast, and I’m sure you do too.”

  “Just once more?”

  “Have pity on your old grandfather. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “All right. Let’s get some eggs on the way home.”

  “Sorry, Tor, I’ve no money. But we’ve still got some bread.”

  Tor grinned at her grandfather and fished about in her deepest pocket, then produced a silver sixpence in triumph.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “The squire’s hawk was stuck in a tree, right near the top, tangled by its jesses. I climbed up and got it. He was grateful.”

  “Eggs it is then. Clever girl.” He ruffled her damp hair, and they left the forest and set off for Cramble, the small village where they lived.

  While Attalor went into the cottage to get the fire going, Tor slipped next door to their neighbour, being careful not to let any of the small flock of hens escape through the gate. She decided to save up to buy her own hen, then they would always have eggs. She’d start tomorrow. The door stood open so she walked straight in.

  Maddy looked up from her spinning wheel and tut-tutted. “Look at the state of you, Torbraya! You’re filthy, and that tear wasn’t there yesterday when I patched you.”

  “No, it got caught on a branch.”

  “Come here, let me look.” She fingered Tor’s sleeve. “You’re wet through! What’s your grandfather thinking of? He should have more sense.”

  “S’okay, I’m fine, I just came to buy some eggs.”

  Tor held up her sixpence. Attalor was very particular about paying their way. He did not mind Maddy patching Tor’s clothes, but drew the line at his granddaughter being given food as though they were beggars. Maddy fetched a bowl and put a dozen eggs in it, grumbling the while.

  “He’s got no idea, that man. He shouldn’t be bringing you up, it’s not right. Teaching you to fight every day as though you were a boy, what’s the good of that? Addling your brains with reading and writing, too, there’s no sense in it. Who’ll marry you, that’s what I want to know, when you can’t cook or sew to save your life? Where’ll you be once he dies and you’re on your own?”

  “He’s not going to die, so it doesn’t matter.” Tor took the eggs and handed over the sixpence. “I’ll bring the bowl back after breakfast, if that’s all right.”

  Maddy took three pennies from her purse and gave them to Tor. “Mind you change into dry things straight away. You’ll catch your death.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  Tor whisked out of the cottage before Maddy could remember she only had one set of clothes.

  CHAPTER 1

  * five years later... *

  Xantilor

  How big is a dragon? Tor did not know, but she was about to find out.

  Her horse stepped through misty drifts of bluebells at the edge of the forest. As she emerged from dappled shade she saw Kallarven Castle, its mellow stone covered in ivy, peaceful in the morning sunshine. The castle, big as a small town, was set on gently rising ground, which would not seem gentle to soldiers fighting their way up it in full armour against enemy arrows. Swans glided on the moat, and swallows wheeled above its turrets.

  Sprawling across the drawbridge was the dragon.

  It was bigger than Tor had thought possible. She’d guessed it might be two or three times the size of a horse. She had been wrong. Its massive body was covered in dull brown scales, tiny on its head and large on its torso, dwindling again towards the tail. Graduated triangular spines ran along its backbone, and the long coiled tail had double spines at the tip like an arrowhead. The dragon was curled up, wings folded, and appeared to be asleep.

  Tor told herself that so large a creature would lack manoeuvrability. With extreme caution she coaxed her horse quietly up to the dragon to have a closer look. There was no getting away from it, it was enormous. She should have brought her lance rather than her spear. Too late now. Just how far would it be able to shoot flames? Retreat was not an option; Tor had come to defeat the dragon, and that was what she would do. She supposed she could attack it while it was sleeping…this might be her best chance, but she could not make up her mind to do something so unfair.

  The dragon opened its eyes, regarded Tor narrowly, and spoke. “Don’t even think about it.”

  The sun flashed on Tor’s spear as she levelled the point. “You can talk!”

  “An astute observation,” said the dragon, squinting and turning its head. “That spear’s reflecting the sunlight right into my eyes. Do put it away.”

  “I think not.”

  “Then perhaps you could tilt it differently?”

  Tor adjusted the angle of her spear, which seemed to satisfy the dragon. Its large head moved on its snaky neck until it was a few feet from hers. Her horse tensed and pranced to one side. The pupils of the dragon’s eyes, black against golden irises, enlarged slightly even as she stared into them. Tor backed her horse, ready to move fast.

  “My name is Xantilor. What is yours?”

  “Tor, short for Torbrek.” Tor kept a wary eye on the dragon and tried to establish some ground rules. “Are you going to breathe fire at me?”

  “We can come to that later, if you like. I’ll give you plenty of warning – follow the usual rules of engagement. But first, Tor, tell me a little about yourself. Why have they sent a girl this time?”

  “They didn’t send me, I came on my own. And how do you know I’m a girl? Nobody else has guessed.” It was disconcerting that he had immediately seen beyond the male attire and armour she was wearing. Tor had grown used, in the past month, to passing as a man.

  “That is because they are men and see what they expect to see. These days girls do not ride, or wear armour, or fight; they stay quietly at home doing what they are told. Men see you, behaving quite differently from every female they have ever known; behaving, in fact, just like a man, and they do not think twice. I, however, am a dragon, and not so easily deceived, and I would hazard a guess that your real name is Torbraya.”

  Though he was right, Tor had never liked t
he name, and was not going to admit to it; she thought anyway they were straying off the point. “I didn’t come here to talk about the perceptive qualities of dragons. I’ve come to rescue the Princess.”

  “Why? She’s really rather a dull girl. Limited conversation. And she’ll no doubt want to marry you if you rescue her, it’s usually done I believe, but not advisable in this case. No, if I were you I wouldn’t bother. Not worth risking your life for. None of the others have succeeded, after all.”

  “What did you do to them, talk them to death?” said Tor rashly.

  The dragon bridled, then subsided. “I’ll ignore that. I would like you to tell me the story of your life.”

  “Why?”

  “Let us just say there is something about you. And don’t rush it. Take your time…” Xantilor settled himself, his chin resting on his crossed front feet, and looked at her expectantly.

  Tor had encountered sheep fiercer than this dragon appeared to be. She hesitated. “So you’re definitely not going to breathe fire at me?”

  The dragon closed his eyes briefly. “There is a lot more to dragons than fire. Forget about it for the moment. Why don’t you sit down?”

  Tor accepted he would not take advantage of her being off guard. Not quite believing this was happening, she tethered her horse, got out her bread and cheese and sat on the rough grass in front of him. It was pleasant in the warm spring sunshine, with the buzz of bees and birdsong in the background. There was a small silence.

  “Begin at the beginning,” Xantilor suggested.

  “Right.” Maybe duels with dragons always started this way, with an exchange of the combatants’ personal histories, but this information had been lost in the mists of time. Perhaps it was part of the usual rules of engagement he had referred to. Still, there was no reason not to tell him her story… “I never knew my parents. My father was killed in battle before I was born.”

  “Your father was a soldier?”

  “No, a troubadour – by chance he got caught up in a skirmish against King Skardroft’s men. Then my mother died having me, so my grandfather came to get me. He’d fallen out with my father when he married – my mother was from the wrong family or something.” Tor had asked him for details, of course, more than once; he would look at her under his bushy eyebrows and then get on with whatever he was doing. He had never spoken much about his past.

  “This was your grandfather on your father’s side?”

  “Yes. He arrived when I was a few weeks old and being cared for by a neighbour. He must have been disappointed when he discovered the last of his line was a girl. So he sort of disregarded that, and brought me up as if I was a boy. The main thing he taught me was to fight - he started training me as soon as I could hold a sword. I loved it. He said when he was dying, he’d taught me all he knew and I wouldn’t meet many people who could fight better than me.” Tor turned away and ran a hand across her eyes; it was only half a year since his death.

  “What was your grandfather’s name?”

  “Attalor.”

  “Was it indeed?” Xantilor’s interest had sharpened. “And where did he come from?”

  “From the North. Atherly Berrow.” Tor looked enquiringly at the dragon, but he said nothing so she continued with her story. “When I came of age on my eighteenth birthday, I went to Yarrow – that’s the nearest town to my village – to see a lawyer about my inheritance. My grandfather told me to just before he died; it was a surprise to me, because we never had any money. I dressed as a man, it seemed safer. I chopped a bit off my hair.” She ran her hand through her shaggy mane, that the summer sun would burnish with gold. “It was nearly a day’s journey on foot.”

  “Did you not have a horse?”

  “We used to have one, grandfather scraped together enough to buy a good cavalry horse for me to learn to ride. But it was old when we got it; it died soon after my grandfather. I couldn’t afford another one.”

  “What did your inheritance turn out to be?”

  Tor laughed ruefully. “Not a great deal of use. There’s a large house and estate, but it’s outside Tarragon and has been taken over by Skardroft for one of his cronies. No point at all trying to claim it as things stand. But there was this.”

  Tor drew a dagger from her belt and held it out for the dragon to examine. The black handle had entwined snakes set with sombre jewels in black and purple with a miniature skull on the end of the pommel. An engraved inscription read, TRUTH UNTO DEATH, and the number eighty-eight. The narrow blade was black. “I don’t know what the metal is. It stays black even when you sharpen it.” The dragon seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. Tor took a deep breath. The next bit was awful, and she didn’t want to think about it, let alone describe it. She was not going to cry any more. Get it over with. She spoke in a rush, her voice unsteady. “When I got back to the outskirts of Cramble – that’s my village – it was being sacked and burned by Skardroft’s soldiers.”

  Images ran through Tor’s mind; the astonishing, horrifying beauty of whole buildings billowing in flames…and the terror of the villagers with nowhere to run except on to the weapons of the soldiers, who surrounded the village in ranks three deep. Screams were barely audible above the conflagration’s roar, and the stench of smoke had stayed on her clothes for days. There was silence while Tor won her battle not to burst into tears. She cut to a more bearable part of the story.

  “I found one of the soldiers’ horses on its own in a barn and stole it to get away.” Tor looked at the dragon, feeling this needed explaining. “I’d never stolen anything before, I’m not a thief, but with what was going on in the village the normal rules didn’t seem to apply.” Xantilor nodded. “I’d just untied it when its owner turned up. He’d been doing some looting away from the troop; he was carrying a sack full of stuff. He went for me and I killed him.” Tor had stared at the dead soldier at her feet, feeling only triumph. Any doubt, pity or remorse she might have felt had been wiped out by the numbing shock of seeing Cramble obliterated. “I found out afterwards that no one got away.” All the people she had known since she was a child; every single one was dead. Her childhood had ended that night. “I don’t know why they did it. I’d heard in Yarrow that a counter-revolution was brewing against Skardroft, so I went to join them. Luckily I ran into a group of Royalists not too far from Cramble. I’ve been with them for the past week or two, in the cavalry. Obviously I didn’t say I was a girl. I’ve still got the horse, as you can see. He’s called Carrots.”

  Xantilor appeared to consider her story. Tor thought it was his turn. “What about you, how did you end up here working for Skardroft?”

  There was disapproval in her tone, and the dragon sounded slightly defensive as he replied. “I may look in my prime, but I’m not as young as I was, so when I was offered this I took it. It’s a comfortable job, not much to do, pleasant surroundings; paid in gold, and three sheep provided to eat each week.”

  “Don’t you get bored?” Tor would have hated hanging around in a backwater with nothing happening and only a dull Princess to talk to. But this did account for his friendly behaviour. In his situation, she too would seize the opportunity to converse with the occasional stranger, even if the stranger had come with a view to a fight.

  “You have pinpointed the negative aspect of my situation, but we will leave that to one side for now. I have come to a decision.”

  Xantilor started to get to his feet. Tor sprang up – were the preliminaries done with according to the dragon’s idea of a duel? Did the fighting begin now? Standing, he loomed over her, blocking out a sizeable expanse of sky. But he said, more formally than he had spoken so far, “I have been indolent for too long, granddaughter of Attalor. You come as a portent to me. I will go with you and offer my services to King Urquin’s army, fighting as did the warrior dragons in the Dragon Battalions of old.”

  Tor beamed with surprise and delight. What would her fellow soldiers in the troop say when she returned with a dragon in tow?
“Good decision. You don’t want to work for a tyrant like Skardroft. But you won’t tell anyone I’m not a man, will you?”

  “Indeed no. Dragons are noted for their discretion. I suppose you will want to bring the Princess with us?”

  “She is what I came for, Xantilor.”

  “Then come with me and I will introduce you. Her name is Gwenderith.”

  They walked side by side over the drawbridge and into the deserted castle, Xantilor’s claws clicking and scratching on stone slabs, and then across a huge empty expanse of grass with groups of trees round the edges. There was a small tower set in the inner defensive wall, the only inhabited part of the whole place. Tor knocked on the door and asked if the Princess would come out. While she was waiting the haunting beauty of her surroundings struck Tor. It was so peaceful; just the noise of leaves in the breeze, birds and the distant murmur of the river behind the Castle. If one was going to be a prisoner, or indeed the dragon guarding the prisoner, one could be in worse places. A minute later Gwenderith emerged, followed by her maid.

  She was a little older than Tor and beautiful. Her face was a classic oval, her complexion creamy; she had big eyes with long lashes and a lot of black hair elaborately coiled about her head with jewels in it. The dress she wore was stiff with gold lace and embroidery. She had a small but ludicrously aggressive lap dog who yapped non-stop at Tor until the Princess picked him up (“Really, Muffin, behave yourself; what will our visitor think?”) Her manner was serene and stately as she welcomed Tor and thanked her for negotiating her freedom from the Castle. She seemed to be on civil terms with Xantilor. It was difficult to know what she was thinking under her veneer of extreme politeness.

  Tor could not resist asking her whether she had ever tried to escape, because in Tor’s view it would have been easy – presumably dragons had to sleep sometimes – but the Princess seemed mildly surprised as she said calmly,