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

by Lexi Revellian

  “Why, no; I knew someone would come for me in due course.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The Hundred Knights

  Xantilor and Tor set off that same afternoon, the Princess in a carriage with her trunks and maids, her manservant driving, and her groom riding beside them. Rather than keeping with them, Tor chose to ride her horse next to Xantilor’s head so they could talk. She found it difficult to believe now that she had come meaning to kill him – she already felt they were friends. There were a lot of things she wanted to ask him.

  “Tell me about the Dragon Battalions.”

  “Ah, the Dragon Battalions… I can just remember them from when I was a young dragon not long out of the shell, and very splendid they were, flying into battle, breathing flames over the enemy. A Dragon Battalion is a formidable force. It was my dream to join one when I was grown.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Xantilor coughed. “You may find this difficult to believe, but I am an under-sized dragon, and was too small to be accepted into their ranks. I had to resign myself to the fact that I would never be a warrior dragon. It seems irrelevant now there are so few of us left. I am sometimes afraid I may be the last dragon alive.”

  “What happened to them all?”

  “There were never huge numbers of dragons, and they have often been misunderstood and feared. When peace came, eighty years ago or so, their usefulness in battle was forgotten. Men have a short life span, and memories to match. Perhaps after Skardroft seized power, men thought of it again, but it was too late. They had forgotten the bond that could be forged between man and dragon, and preferred not to live too near them. The dragons had been driven away. And any egg-producing creature is vulnerable to egg theft and destruction.”

  Tor thought this sad. She changed the subject. “Could you fly with me on your back?”

  “Certainly.”

  Tor’s face lit up. She had always dreamed of flying. “Could we do it now?”

  “Yes,” said Xantilor.

  Tor got the groom to lead her horse, and scrambled up the dragon’s warm scaly sides. The scales did not afford much purchase, but Tor had strong arms and hands from years of climbing ropes and trees. She took off her jacket and folded it between two spines to make it more comfortable, and held on to the spine in front of her.

  Xantilor’s wings spread and began to beat, he ran forwards a little and at once they were airborne, the ground receding below them. It was the most exciting moment of Tor’s life so far. They were faster than a galloping horse, the surge upwards with each wing beat was breathtaking and the view amazing. The wings made a rhythmic sound, low and musical. Tor could not stop smiling; she felt an overwhelming happiness she had not experienced since Attalor died. They reached a height from which she could see everything for miles, the little hamlets with their patchwork fields, the flat gleaming winding river, the forests hazy with new leaves varying from pinkish-brown to many shades of green, the Castle and its grounds spread out behind them.

  Far too soon, Xantilor flew back to earth and landed, a little bumpily, some way ahead of the carriage. Tor slid off and ran round to his head and hugged him.

  “That was fantastic, Xantilor, the best thing ever!”

  Xantilor looked gratified, but he was breathing too heavily to reply, and sat down to wait for the others to catch up with them. “Bit out of condition,” he said after a minute. “Must get fit again.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Tor, “any time.”

  She thought how much she liked Xantilor, and it was nice that he seemed to like her too. By the time the others had joined them, he had got his breath back. When they were on their way once more, Tor asked the dragon if he had known her grandfather.

  “Yes indeed.” Xantilor nodded his great head. “It is a strange reflection that in some ways I may know more about you than you do yourself. I knew Attalor when he was a young man in Atherly Berrow, more than fifty years ago.”

  “Did you really? What was he like back then?”

  “Handsome, a bit wild, and a superb fighter. You do not know, because no doubt he did not tell you for your own safety, that he was one of the Hundred Knights, and from your description it is clear he gave you the teaching that ensured you too, in your turn, would be such a Knight. Your dagger is one of only a hundred made for the Knights, passed from one initiate to another.”

  Tor’s attention was riveted on the dragon. This was the most thrilling thing she had ever been told. “Who are the Hundred Knights?”

  “They are, or perhaps I should say were, an elite cadre that combined supreme martial skills with the highest principles of right. Established centuries ago in Atherly Berrow, there were always exactly a hundred Knights, plus of course their squires undergoing the long apprenticeship.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Most are dead, and nobody knows where the last few are. They were, of course, the natural enemy of every tyrant. King Skardroft has spent the past twenty years systematically tracking them down and destroying them, at first covertly, latterly quite openly. Those at Atherly Berrow left when he became their known enemy. They have not been seen for years, though I am sure that wherever they are, they will be working against Skardroft.”

  “And you really think I am one of them?”

  “You have undergone the training, and you have the black dagger. Certainly you are a Knight.”

  “And my grandfather was a Knight before me…” A thought struck Tor. “You don’t suppose they burnt Cramble because of my grandfather – maybe they didn’t know he was dead, maybe they were trying to kill him?”

  Xantilor looked at her gravely. “Or you.”

  King Skardroft stood, leaning on the low balcony wall, looking out with satisfaction over his capital. He had set his mark on Tarragon. It was a pleasing view, and all his doing; broad avenues stretched to the city gate, with parks dotted here and there among the houses. The trees he had had planted not long after seizing power were big now, their leaves green-gold in the dying light.

  It had been worth clearing away the jumble of journeymen’s shacks and workshops that crowded round the foot of the citadel, their narrow alleyways crammed with scuffling children, chickens and pigs. On hot, still days their reek had risen to the palace windows. The ramshackle hovels had been replaced by elegant houses with stables and spacious gardens, home to nobles whose support he could count on so long as he kept power. The common people, forced out of their squalid quarters at the heart of the capital, had recreated the cramped conditions they seemed to favour out of his sight beyond the city walls. It was a matter of complete indifference to Skardroft that they hated him.

  He turned into his room, crossed the carpeted oak floor and pulled a bell-rope. A serving-man entered, bowed, and got out a decanter and two jewelled goblets from a painted and gilded cabinet. He lit the candles in their golden sconces. As he left, a man walked softly past him and joined the King at the great polished table.

  “Corfe.” Skardroft motioned him to sit. “Wine?”

  Corfe was one of the few people that the King invariably invited to sit down and offered refreshment to. Inconspicuous, of indeterminate age, good at blending into the background in his habitual dark clothes, he was tall and lean, and a lot stronger than he appeared. He was an agent Skardroft valued; he got results.

  Refusing the drink, Corfe sat, stroked his long chin and looked up at the wall behind Skardroft. Two tapestries, ten years’ work on the loom, showed a unicorn hunt; on the left the mythical beast stepped delicately on flowered turf towards a fair maid. The matching arras showed a king and his noblemen riding in pursuit. Between was a decorative display of weapons. In that room where everything demonstrated the demanding taste of the King, and was as perfect as craftsman’s hand could make it, this alone was flawed. There were gaps like missing teeth in the three circles of jewelled black daggers.

  “The Hundred Knights, Sire…” Corfe’s voice was quiet and unhurried, devoid of emphasis. “
Attalor’s grandson, the Knight Torbrek; you remember we narrowly missed him when Cramble burned.”

  Skardroft’s keen eyes turned his way and he frowned. “Cramble burned for nothing.”

  “Sire, the villagers lied. They denied all knowledge of a Knight in their midst. Had they chosen to answer my questions, they would have come to no harm. As it was, the damage was done; they knew we sought him. If we had not acted swiftly, they would have alerted him.”

  “It was unfortunate. If you’d discovered his existence sooner…not that I blame you. And I know you have the matter in hand.”

  “He’s with the rebels now, in the cavalry. I can make arrangements to take him. But first, there is something you should know.” Before explaining, he leaned back and looked at Skardroft speculatively, wondering what his reaction would be. At present Corfe was sole possessor of the secret his research had revealed. Even Torbrek himself had no knowledge of it.

  “I’ve been looking into the records of the Hundred Knights, and I have come across some information about Torbrek that I think will interest you.”

  CHAPTER 3

  How to train a dragon

  Tor made an entrance to the camp riding on Xantilor’s back. She hoped to impress her recently-made friends in the cavalry, and was not disappointed. Word spread like fire in a thatch and everyone dropped what he was doing and came to see.

  To have brought back the Princess was impressive enough, particularly as she was so beautiful and regal just as a Princess should be; the soldiers showed their appreciation with cheers and whistles, but this was nothing compared to the reaction Xantilor got. He really drew the crowds. Few people had seen a dragon before, and no one had seen a dragon close to. Like Tor they were astonished by the sheer scale of him, and at first were inclined to be wary. Tor’s exhilaration changed to alarm as archers appeared, with arrows ready nocked to their bows.

  She shouted and waved from Xantilor’s back. “Don’t fire! He won’t hurt you; he’s come to join us. He’s on our side.”

  She climbed down and walked towards them. The archers lowered their bows and came to have a closer look. Xantilor stood with quiet dignity while the soldiers crowded round him. One man tripped over the dragon’s foot in the throng, and automatically said sorry.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Xantilor politely, and caused a sensation.

  “It can talk!”

  “Go on, say something else!”

  “I hope you will not think me rude, but I am a little weary after the journey and would like a rest.”

  The men cheered. Tor asked the quartermaster if he had somewhere the dragon could stay, and he found a barn big enough to accommodate him. Xantilor was exhausted, but Tor was sure he only needed a night’s rest to be as good as new. She spread a thick layer of straw as a bed; he curled up, and soon his regular deep breathing rumbled round the barn. Tor left him while she went to the barracks for her supper. When she returned as she had promised he didn’t wake. Too excited to sleep herself, she lay staring into the darkness, making plans for a training regime that would begin the next day, working out how she would dovetail it into her other commitments. One bright image after another passed through her mind.

  The first thing was to get him fit. Tor smiled as she thought of all the flying this would entail. They could go back and see Cramble, and all the places she used to go with her grandfather…she imagined how they would look from the air… Then fire breathing; she suspected it had been a long time since Xantilor had breathed fire. He was reticent on the subject. But surely it would come back to him.

  Her own dragon; had it occurred to her that it was a possibility, she’d have wanted one all her life.

  The following morning Tor sat on a stack of hay finishing her breakfast in the golden light of the early sun that slanted through the doorway. Xantilor was still asleep. A ham Tor had begged from the kitchens was ready for him when he woke.

  The light changed, and she looked up to see two men walk into the barn. Tor knew one of them by sight; he was the senior officer called Drewitt who commanded Tor’s cavalry unit. Tor thought him unattractive, with his pale eyelashes, high forehead and humourless expression. Tor scrambled up as he approached.

  He glanced at the dragon and addressed Tor. “You can return to the cavalry now.”

  “What?” As an afterthought, Tor saluted. “Sir.”

  “I said you can go.” He glanced at the man with him. “We have found a Dragon Master’s son to take over the dragon. You won’t be needed here any more.”

  “I thought – I hoped…”

  “You thought what?”

  “That I could work with him. Sir.”

  Drewitt gave a small smile. “How long have you been with us? One week, or is it two? I don’t think you’re quite ready for such a promotion yet. And I gather your experience with dragons is nil.”

  “I can learn.” Tor indicated the other man with her chin. “Has he got any experience with dragons?”

  “Not directly, no, but – “

  “Then I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

  “You are being insubordinate. Go back to the cavalry, now – that’s an order.”

  Tor left, feeling mutinous. Drewitt was being completely unreasonable. It wasn’t fair. Who had brought the dragon there in the first place? And did this mean she would never again fly with him? That would be unbearable. She had not heard of Dragon Masters before, but now she had, she wanted to be one, and envy gripped her soul. She had an overpowering feeling of wrongness that made Drewitt’s decision hard to accept; she should be with Xantilor now, helping him get into condition, not some random Dragon Master’s son.

  She hated Drewitt, and the man who had supplanted her. And she worried about poor Xantilor, waking up to find his future settled without reference to him. Tor spent the next two days feeling as though she had a small black cloud over her head. She did not confide in her fellow soldiers in the cavalry; she feared she might burst into tears if they were sympathetic. They congratulated her on rescuing the Princess, but she did not care about that. She had no interest in the Princess. All she could think about was Xantilor.

  Two or three times she went to the barn to see him, but there were guards at the entrance who turned her away. There were no windows to climb up to, and Tor could find no other way in. As far as she could tell, Xantilor never left the barn either, which seemed strange. She kept on the lookout for him, and after all, you could hardly miss a dragon because of its size.

  On the third morning, she was taken out of the ranks of the cavalry drill by the sergeant, to the considerable interest of her fellow soldiers. A message had arrived; she was to report immediately to Barlanik, the leader of Urquin’s army, their Commander-in-chief.

  Tor knew where Barlanik’s office was, though she had never been in there. An open door led to an anteroom, where a pretty dark-haired young woman, a few years older than Tor, was sitting behind a desk copying out a document. Tor remembered being told that she was Barlanik’s sister. She gave Tor a shy smile, and told her to go through. Barlanik’s office was not large, but very orderly. Maps, lists and plans were pinned to the walls, and papers were neatly stacked on a large table. It was almost monastic in its absence of any personal possessions.

  Barlanik stood looking out of the window at the cavalry drilling in the square. The muffled sound of hoof beats and shouted orders drifted in. He was tall, in his late twenties, with a soldier’s physique. When he turned, she saw he had dark eyes and curling hair like his sister’s.

  Tor saluted. As Barlanik crossed the room his springy stride stirred some memory in her; she thought of her grandfather, and how much she missed him.

  “Sit down,” he said, taking a seat himself, and meeting her gaze. The Commander appeared preoccupied, serious, and not particularly friendly. His manner was business-like and decisive. Tor had been wrong about his eyes; where his sister’s were soft, his were cool and penetrating. He looked her over. She wished her clothes were le
ss shabby, but at least her old boots, sword belt and buttons gleamed as much as polish could make them. “It seems we have no alternative but to make you Dragon Master, since the dragon will not co-operate with anyone else, and he could be very useful in action. I assume you are prepared to take this on?”

  “Yes, Commander,” said Tor, incredulous and overjoyed, but trying not to show it.

  “We’ll be moving to Kallarven Castle in due course, and then you can relocate to the Dragon Tower, but for now there’ll be a room for you close to his quarters. You’ll be attached to the cavalry under Drewitt, but Dragon Battalions are traditionally independent units. I’d like you to report on his progress and potential regularly – you’d better attend strategy meetings until further notice. The next one is here tomorrow evening at sundown. Remember you’re an officer now, and as such a target for Skardroft’s spies. Avoid situations where you are vulnerable.”

  “Yes, Commander!” Tor’s eyes shone. She was a Dragon Master…

  “My sister has found a book which may be helpful. She’ll give it to you on the way out. Let her know if you need anything else. Do you have any questions?”

  “Well, a comment, Commander,” said Tor, determined not to be intimidated by him. “Xantilor is middle aged for a dragon, and he’s set in his ways. I don’t think he’s breathed fire for years, or flown very far. It will take time to get him back into condition, and that’s only if he wants to. You can’t make dragons do things.”

  “Yes, we’ve learned that already,” said Barlanik dryly. “See what you can do with him, and keep me informed.” He stood. The interview was over.

  Tor saluted with enthusiasm and made for the door. A thought that had been patiently waiting for her attention now seized its moment. He’s very good-looking…really attractive…quite old, of course, and a bit glacial (does he ever smile?) but still…not that I’d have a chance, he’s my commanding officer and thinks I’m a man, so forget it…