In the outer office a man in light armour was sitting on the edge of the girl’s desk eating an apple. His features were irregular, and not as good as Barlanik’s, but his amused and lively expression made his face agreeable.
He got up and said, “You must be Torbrek. I’m Kerris, Barlanik’s second in command.”
“Hi,” said Tor, smiling at him and the girl. “Everyone calls me Tor.”
“Tor, have you been introduced to Linet? Linet runs the whole show, really. We couldn’t possibly manage without her, she knows everything.” Linet gave a small smile and shook her head. Kerris grinned. “Take no notice of her unassuming manner, she just puts that on to mislead. You’re the first Dragon Master I’ve met, owing to the current severe shortage of dragons. You must tell me what a Dragon Master does.”
“I will when I find out. The Commander said we’re moving to Kallarven?”
“Yes, we’re growing too many for this place. We’ll leave a garrison here and move most of the troops to the Castle. Strategically it’s better, being nearer to Tarragon, and now we can get into it thanks to you.”
Tor turned to Linet. “The Commander said you had a book for me?”
Linet produced a small shabby volume with metal hasps, slightly singed on one corner. It was entitled, in gold lettering on red leather, The Dragon Keeper’s Guide: A Manual of Dragon Lore.
“It’s all I could find,” she said. “Mostly they handed information straight from Master to apprentice – not much got written down.”
Tor opened it and flipped through the pages. The manuscript was decorated here and there with little pictures of gold dragons. It occurred to Tor that if that was how dragons were supposed to look, then Xantilor was definitely portly, and exercise must be high on her list. She turned to the title page.
“THE DRAGON KEEPER’S GUIDE: A MANUAL OF DRAGON LORE
by His Majestie’s Noted Dragon Master in Chief
Wherein he Treats of the Noble Dragon, (the Best of Creatures) its Management now made Easie; and all Its Occult-Lock’d-up Secrets Plainly laid Open, never before Discover’d; whereby this Animal of Worth, may be render’d Tractable…”
Tor decided to get to grips with it later. She pocketed the book and went back to cavalry drill feeling elated. Kerris walked into Barlanik’s office and took a seat.
“I’ve just been talking to the new Dragon Master.”
“Yes, he’s younger than I expected but seems keen; looks more like an acrobat or a dancer than a soldier; we’ll have to see how he turns out. Kerris, I’ve been thinking we should have some sort of celebratory dinner for Gwenderith to mark the fact that she’s no longer Skardroft’s captive; can you set it up?”
“Good idea. Who do you want to invite?”
“Just the officers – usual sort of thing, but dress it up a bit, make her feel welcome. Wait till we get to the Castle, there’s bound to be a banqueting hall there. Get Raziella to put flowers on the tables. See if she can make the food better than last time.”
“I’ll try to put it to her tactfully. Will you ask Tor?”
“Yes, he’s an officer now; I’m going to put him on her other side. He rescued Gwenderith, that should give them something to talk about.”
Kerris was amused. “What are you going to talk to Gwenderith about?”
Barlanik’s brow furrowed. “God knows. Last time she told me about her dog. Any suggestions?”
“You could tell her about your horse.”
Barlanik looked at Kerris. “That’s not helpful.”
“You worry too much about it, just say anything, it doesn’t matter. You’re both trying too hard.”
“I think she probably did conversation classes with her governess as part of learning to be a princess. She’s so correct, it makes her almost impossible to talk to – that, and the fact she’s never been anywhere or done anything.”
“The penalty of being a princess. You must admit though, she’s easy on the eye.”
“Oh yes. A nice girl, too,” said Barlanik.
“I’m afraid I made the Dragon Master’s son’s life rather unpleasant,” Xantilor told Tor complacently. “He’d lost his nerve by the end of the first day. Yesterday he got some other people in to help him, but I made it clear to them, in my own way, that they were wasting their time. Then this morning Barlanik himself came to see me, and I knew I was getting somewhere. He’s got a bit more sense. He listened to me.”
“I should have known I didn’t have to worry about you, but I did.”
They were in a field within easy flying distance of the camp. On the way, Tor got Xantilor to practise flying in the manner of the birds they passed. Copying a pigeon was fine; a skylark presented more of a challenge, and a merlin’s hovering and diving proved too much for his current fitness levels.
Tor had brought the dragon book, and while Xantilor’s breathing slowed to normal she read interesting bits out loud to him. It had turned out to be more useful than she’d expected.
“It says here, ‘Let thy Dragon not Eate but what he hath Procured for Himselfe; for it is a Curious Observation, that the Dragon that feedeth Grosslie, and is too Amplie Provided for by his Keeper, (for reasons of Mistaken Kindenesse), will not Thrive, but grow Fat, Browne, and a Sluggard. Therefore, see ye give him naught but a Small Token for to acknowledge his Compliance; a roast Quail proveth a suitable Gifte and spoileth not his Appetite.’ No more sheep for you, then. You don’t want to be a Sluggard. And what does it mean, grow brown?”
“Most dragons go a bit brown as they get older,” said Xantilor stiffly.
“Hmm. This next bit says a dragon shows his feelings by the colour of his scales; ‘his Natural Golde giveth waye to his passions, and he turneth Purple when Cholericke.’ Maybe that’ll come when you’re fitter.”
Tor jumped up and collected some twigs from the ground, propping them against each other on end in front of the dragon. Xantilor’s head followed her movements. When she was satisfied, she stood back. “Okay, see if you can set fire to them.”
The dragon gave her a dubious look. “Not sure if I can,” he mumbled. “It’s been a long time…”
“Just have a go; don’t worry if you can’t at first. I know you will after a bit of practice, it may take a few days, that’s all.”
Xantilor closed his eyes and concentrated. He took a deep breath, then blew. The sticks fell over. A tiny wisp of smoke came out of his mouth.
“Excellent! A good start – we’ll try again tomorrow,” said Tor encouragingly. “And I’m going to see the saddler, there’s a really good drawing here of a dragon saddle with all sorts of hooks and rings – attachments for weapons and ropes and things.”
She jumped up to show Xantilor, and saw a man riding up the rough slope towards them. “Look, it’s Kerris.” The big piebald horse stopped nearby, rolling his eyes at the dragon and pulling his head away. “Hi.”
“Hello, I thought I’d come and find out what a Dragon Master does. And a dragon, for that matter.” Kerris patted his horse’s neck and dismounted. “Come on, Outlaw, just think of it as a funny-looking oversized horse.” After a moment, Outlaw relaxed and began to crop the grass. Kerris turned to Tor. “Go on, don’t mind me, pretend I’m not here.”
“Actually, we’d about finished for today. I have to get back for sword drill.”
“Rats. I’ve got the morning off, and I can’t find anyone to spend it with. Everyone’s rushing off somewhere. Can’t you miss sword drill for once? You’re the best in the troop.”
“If I’m the best it’s because I practise every day. It’s a shame you’ve got your horse, you could’ve flown back with us. Flying’s amazing, you’d like it.”
Kerris shook his head. “Some other time.”
“I know, I could take your horse, and you can ride Xantilor.”
“Really kind offer, but I think I’ll pass.”
A suspicion Tor had entertained before about Kerris became stronger. “Hmm…you don’t much like heights, do you?
”
Kerris looked shifty. “Me, afraid of heights? Nothing I’d like more than a panoramic view from a few hundred feet up in the sky, perched perilously on the spikes of a dragon’s back. With nothing to hang on to. But Outlaw’s not very good with strange riders. You might get thrown. I’d never forgive myself.”
Tor grinned at him. “I can manage the horse if you can cope with Xantilor. Ten ducats says you can’t.”
Kerris’s eyes narrowed. “You’re on.” He walked over to Xantilor. “Nice and gently for a novice rider, there’s a good chap.” He clambered up the dragon’s side, gingerly settling himself between the wings. “These spines are a bit…spiny. Ah…and I’m quite high up already, I see, even with him sitting on the ground…oowaaah!”
Xantilor had got up with a rocking motion, first to his front feet, then to all four of them. He stretched his wings. Kerris’s face, noticeably paler, was a mixture of unease and determination as he clung on. Tor laughed heartlessly up at him.
“Kerris, you look the part. Anyone seeing you would think you’d been a Dragon Master for, oh, all of two minutes.” She went to Xantilor’s head and spoke softly to him. “Take him the scenic route home, over the forest. But don’t let him fall off, will you?”
The dragon lifted into the blue sky, away from the camp, flying low and not too fast. Tor watched till they disappeared, picked up the dragon book and went over to Outlaw.
In the outskirts of the forest, concealed against its dark depths, Corfe sat on his horse and watched Torbrek consideringly. The King had told him to leave off his other investigations, in order to concentrate on the capture of Torbrek, and today Corfe was deep in rebel-held territory, to spy out the land. A pity Skardroft’s commandos were not with him; the dragon having flown off with its Master, they could have snatched him easily. Now Torbrek was heading back to the camp. Best to wait until he went hunting alone. Just a matter of perseverance. Corfe had the ability to bide his time when other men would grow weary and give up; he found patience was a strategy that worked. He turned his horse and disappeared into the trees.
Tor went to find the saddler in her lunch break. The saddler’s shop was dark inside, with rolls of hides of varying thickness stacked against the wall, and boxes of interesting metal parts; buckles, nails, studs, and rings. Stirrups and bits were arranged by size on shelves, while set up on a workbench under the window were saddles in different stages of construction. There was an agreeable smell of leather and wood. The saddler, a stout man in a leather apron, seemed doubtful when Tor showed him the dragon saddle illustration; he sucked in air past his teeth and shook his head.
“That’s a bit different from what I usually make. Course, in the old days, you had your dragon loriners would do all that sort of thing, but I don’t know where you’d find one nowadays. Come to think of it, I did hear there was one still at Atherly Berrow – mark you, you wouldn’t want to go there now, it’s overrun with Skardroft’s soldiers.”
“But I’m sure you could do it; if you measured the dragon – I’d be there to help, of course,” she added hastily, seeing his expression, “– and used this picture as a guide, with all your experience of saddling horses, you could do a first rate job.”
“I don’t know…what’s these bits here?” He pointed a stubby finger.
“Those are straps you buckle round your legs for battle – if the dragon’s going to be doing rolls, to stop you falling off. I think these curved metal bars do the same thing, but the straps are for extra security. And these are the handles at the front, they’re made out of metal and wood, you hold on to those.”
“And this here?”
“That’s for a coil of rope, and these are to hold spears, I think.”
“A job like this isn’t going to come cheap, you know.”
Tor did not care; she had already squared the expense with Linet. In the end, as though against his better judgment, the saddler agreed to come and measure Xantilor the following morning.
On her way out of the saddler’s, Tor noticed a pair of boots in the window of the outfitter’s next door. They were tall, made of brown leather with an expensive sheen to it, with more straps and buckles than were strictly necessary. Tor gazed, and then went into the shop. I need a few shirts, anyway, she thought, now I’ve earned some money; everything I’ve got is dreadfully worn and patched. I might as well try them on… Half an hour later she emerged with the shirts, the boots, trousers, and a leather jacket with a high collar and brass studs. She had never had as many new clothes before. She was pleased to have something respectable to wear to the dinner in Gwenderith’s honour later that week, as Kerris had told her she was to be near the top of the table.
Xantilor approved, when Tor rather shyly showed her new clothes to him. “I didn’t like to say anything, but it did cross my mind that perhaps you were a little unkempt for a Dragon Master. Now you look as good as any I’ve seen. No, better.”
The next morning the saddler came to measure Xantilor, who behaved impeccably, like the most docile dragon you could wish for. The saddler leaned a ladder against his side, and climbed stolidly to the top to take careful measurements. He was now committed to the project, and made one or two suggestions for improvements to the design, which were useful, and Tor told him to incorporate them.
The whole army and its support network of armourers, smiths, and merchants moved to Kallarven Castle over the next couple of days. Tor and Xantilor flew there, stopping every now and then for the dragon to rest.
Tor liked the Dragon Tower; it was her domain where she was in charge, like having her own kingdom. The ground floor was enormous, with a lofty vaulted ceiling and small round windows high up. This was where Xantilor lived. There was space for four dragons, which they would have had in the old days of the Dragon Battalions. The walls were several feet thick, with a huge fireplace in the middle of each of the sides. Tor knew from the dragon book this was to warm the dragons in winter before a battle. Dragons got a bit sluggish in the cold, and in a fight, the least chilled dragons had the advantage and this could be decisive. The walls had once been whitewashed, but were now scabby and peeling.
Above, and leading from the ground floor by four spiral staircases, were four not very large circular turrets, two of which were ruined and occupied by pigeons. Tor chose the best one of the others for her living quarters, and swept and scrubbed the grime of years from it. It had a small fireplace, which would come in handy when the weather grew cold. She brought her camp bed from the barracks, and banged in a row of nails on the wall to hang her clothes, armour and weapons on. The turret windows were narrow, and pointed at the top, placed at intervals all the way round the walls so you could see the countryside in all directions. Their glass was old and wavery, which made the view look as if it had run slightly in the rain. Tor loved the spiral staircase up to it, the panelled door made to the same shape as the windows, and the fact that it was her very own. She did not mind its bareness, or the leaking roof, or the way it was like an oven on a hot day and was certain to be freezing in winter.
Tor drew up a plan for Xantilor’s exercise and training. They started each morning with flying, concentrating on building up the dragon’s stamina and manoeuvrability in the air; Tor wanted him to be able to soar, dive and generally whiz about the sky like a swift. Xantilor pointed out that he was, in fact, rather larger than a swift, with a less advantageous wing to body-weight ratio.
“Ah, but you’ll be losing a bit of weight, foraging for yourself,” said Tor, “plus the book says in battle a dragon is vulnerable to arrows through its wings, and you need to be able to avoid them.”
After the flying, Xantilor practised breathing fire. This was coming on more slowly than Tor had hoped. So far the dragon had only managed smoke, but the quantity of smoke he produced was increasing, and Tor was often coughing as she assured Xantilor that they were nearly there now.
After this, Tor went off to weapons drill, while Xantilor hunted his breakfast in the forest. He was not ye
t very good at this, and sometimes, if he failed to catch anything, Tor would relent when she came back and shoot him a rabbit. This did not altogether meet with Xantilor’s approval. The first time she gave him a rabbit, he peered at the small furry body, then turned his head to stare at Tor.
“What’s this?”
“I thought you might be hungry.”
“I am, very, but I don’t know that this will help. Even for a rabbit (and rabbits are small creatures when considered as a meal for a dragon) it’s diminutive. It must have been the runt of the litter. I expect its parents couldn’t get it to eat its greens. It was most likely a worry to them, being so undersized and failing to thrive. Probably a good thing you put the wretched animal out of its misery. But I have to say, I’m not sure it’s worth my using up energy chewing it.”
Tor was taken aback by so much sarcasm. “Oh all right then, if that’s how you feel, I’ll give it to the kitchens. They’ll take anything they can get.”
“On the other hand, I don’t wish to appear ungrateful,” said Xantilor, eating the rabbit in one gulp before Tor could take it away, and looking reproachfully at her.
But overall she was proud of his progress, and his willingness to work with her. She was confident that it was just a matter of time before he was as good as any dragon in the Dragon Battalions had ever been. She liked being a Dragon Master. There was a bit in the dragon book which made her realize that she was in fact extremely lucky to be one. It was right at the start, and said,
“The Dragon chooseth the Master, not the Master the Dragon, and None shall have sway over the Dragon but He whom the Dragon hath chosen. Commend thyself unto the Dragon howsoe’er thou may, thou canst not usurp the place for which thou wast not chosen, nor, having been chosen, canst thou be Remov’d by any man. For it is manifest, the Dragon obeyeth his Imperious Heart, and chooseth his Master, whatever be his profession and degree, according to its Dictates.”
Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy) Page 3
