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

by Lexi Revellian

  Farren said, “Pom’s told me who you are. May I call you Gwenderith? The others are waiting not far ahead. I’ll follow you in a minute.”

  She saw he wanted to be by himself. Pom got back on the cart and they set off.

  “What did he say, Pom?”

  “He’s really nice, like Quintern. He looks like him, you know, except for having blue eyes. I told him everything that happened. He made me feel sort of all right about it, better anyway. He said Quintern trusted me, that it was lucky I was there. I offered him the dagger and the money, but he said to keep it, his father had wanted me to have it. He’s going to give me a special belt for the dagger. Farren said he’d make me his squire if Tor wasn’t going to.”

  After a time, the cart rounded a bend and they saw two huge shapes on either side gleaming golden in the sun; dragons. Much bigger dragons than Xantilor, and a brighter gold. They looked like improbably situated statues, except that one of them lifted his head to look at them as they approached. One wore a saddle, the other not. Looking small beside them were two men.

  Farren reappeared by the cart. “I’ll go ahead and explain. You come on slowly.”

  He strode off, met the others, and stood talking to them a while. Both dragons extended their long necks and listened gravely to what he was saying. Gwenderith thought it was considerate of him to spare Pom having to tell his story yet again, especially as Farren was in grief himself. Pom was right; he was nice. The three men came up to them.

  Farren said, “Let me introduce Haskell and Cassarian.”

  The two men were clearly Knights, by their bearing and armour, one in his fifties, the other in his early sixties. They bowed to Gwenderith, and Cassarian kissed her hand. It felt strange to her to be treated like a princess once more.

  Haskell said to Pom, “We’re most grateful to you for completing Quintern’s mission. The Knights are in your debt, and we hope we can repay you some time in the future.”

  Pom went red. “It’s okay,” he muttered. “I’m sorry about Quintern.”

  “He was an exceptional Knight, and will be missed.”

  There was a pause, and then Farren said, “We must get going. It’s best not to stay here longer than we have to. We’ll get the cart unloaded then you must come and meet the dragons.”

  Gwenderith helped Cassarian unbuckle the horse’s harness to release him from the cart. She had made up her mind that, Princess though she was, it was not too late to start learning some of the skills of ordinary people. She had had enough of doing nothing. He said they would leave the cart there, and let the horse go free; someone would find him. The others shifted the timber, uncovering the crate containing the dragon saddle. They lifted it off and prized it open, and the dragons came up to see.

  Farren said, “This is Ottobar and Zik, Princess Gwenderith and Pom.”

  The dragons looked at each of them intently for a moment, nodded and turned away. Ottobar curled up a little way off and closed his eyes, while Zik went with Haskell to try on her new saddle.

  “Pity,” said Farren, “I hoped one of them might choose one of you as Dragon Master.”

  Gwenderith was glad she had not been aware of this possibility.

  Farren smiled at her. “It would make life much simpler. They haven’t chosen any of us, and with unmastered dragons, it’s almost as though they belong to some Dragons’ Guild or other, with all sorts of rules and guidelines they won’t infringe. The amount of talking we have to do before they agree to anything you wouldn’t believe…they’re quite stroppy at times. Father says – used to say that it’s because they’re teenagers. He used to laugh about it.”

  Farren stopped talking and stared at the ground. After a moment he turned and walked away. Gwenderith felt terribly sorry for him.

  “Poor boy,” said Cassarian, shaking his head. “He got very close to his father these last few years, hiding out together. And Quintern was so proud of him…they found our first dragon.”

  “How many have you got?” Pom asked.

  “As well as these, we’ve got Mortheano. He’s much older than Ottobar and Zik, but I can’t say he’s any more co-operative. His Dragon Master died, and we don’t know if dragons take a second Master, or whether that’s it. Then there’s a fourth, but we’re waiting for her. She’s younger than these, and she’s abroad still. With her we’ll have a full Dragon Battalion.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “A long way from Calambria. The Knights went in pairs as far as they had to.”

  “Will you bring them to help Barlanik?”

  “We’ll decide in council tomorrow. It’ll be too late when we get back tonight.”

  The Knights packed up their temporary camp, rejoined by a silent Farren, and loaded everything on to the two dragons. When they were ready, Cassarian told Gwenderith that she and Pom would fly with Farren on Ottobar, and he and Haskell went on Zik. Muffin would travel securely in a wicker basket strapped to the side. Both dragon saddles had seats for four, with small handles low down in front of each seat. There was a narrow rope ladder with brass treads just big enough for a foot that you climbed to reach the saddle. Farren went up first, then Gwenderith followed. She was very frightened, but thought it would be easier to be brave if she did not mention the fact. Her skirts got in the way, and Farren reached out an arm to pull her up. She smiled uncertainly at him, and he smiled back.

  “It’s a bit unnerving the first time, but you soon get used to it.”

  Pom shinned up nonchalantly. He had always longed for a flight on Xantilor, but by the time Tor felt friendly enough to take him, they had been too busy fighting and there had not been an opportunity. Farren rolled up the ladder, and explained to Gwenderith that the curving metal braces over her legs would stop her falling off.

  “We won’t bother with the straps, as he’ll be staying the right way up on the way home. Ready?”

  Gwenderith nodded, too afraid to speak.

  “Off you go, Ottobar!”

  The dragon began to run, beating his huge wings and accelerating until all at once they were airborne, climbing at a steep angle into the sky. Gwenderith, very scared, flung her arms round Farren’s waist and clung to him, burying her face in his hair, not wanting to see the ground swaying about way below them.

  “I should have said you could hang on to me if you want. Those handles do seem a bit low on take off the first few flights.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a small voice into his hair, wondering if it would be all right for her to stay like this for the whole journey.

  Pom sat up straight, drinking in the speed of their passage. The dragon steadied to the regular powerful wingbeat that he would maintain for the whole of the flight. Gwenderith opened her eyes, and saw the fields and forests far below, and the mountains ahead. The dragons’ shadows could be seen moving across the landscape. She felt a panicky lurch in her stomach and tightened her grip on Farren. She kept her eyes open though, and found that after a few minutes her panic subsided and she could, up to a point, admire the scenery; but every now and then the reality of where she was would hit her again, and she would feel another jolt of fear. Flying was never going to be one of her favourite things.

  Startled by the dragons, a group of deer broke cover and ran across the open ground. Ottobar had seen them too, and without warning plummeted towards them, dropping like a stone. Farren swore. Gwenderith wondered if she would fall off if she fainted; when she glanced at Pom he grinned at her and murmured, “Wow…”

  Ottobar dived until it seemed certain he would hit the ground, but at the last minute he pulled up, grabbed a stag with his front feet, and decelerated to a standstill. He sat on his haunches and began to eat the deer, his fearsome teeth crunching into it, one clawed foot holding it down, and one beady eye on his passengers as though daring them to make something of it. Zik swooped down and started ripping meat from the other side.

  “Sorry about this,” said Farren, his voice embarrassed. “We can’t stop them do
ing it, it’s a nuisance. We may as well get off and have a break ourselves; they’ll be a while, they like to have a nap after a meal.”

  He helped Gwenderith climb off the dragon. The others joined them.

  “Honestly, you’d think they hadn’t eaten in days. Ottobar had a whole goat this morning,” said Haskell.

  Cassarian added, “We’ve asked them not to eat while they’re taking us somewhere, but they just ignore us.” He shook his head, looking at the dragons. “They’ve agreed not to do it on the way to a battle – or during one, but that’s as far as they’ll go.”

  An hour later they were on the wing once more, flying over mountains, the air growing colder, snow visible on the highest peaks. Gwenderith remembered from geography lessons with her governess that these mountains were high, extensive, and marked the edge of the map. The Knights had found a retreat that was inaccessible to anyone earthbound. The dragons’ steady flight continued, and Gwenderith began to long for sleep, and even nodded off once or twice, waking with a jump.

  At length, by late afternoon as the sunlight took on a rich amber glow, she could see beyond the mountains to a rocky, boulder-strewn plain, with no sign of human habitation. The dragons flew lower, following the course of a turbulent mountain river that frothed and boiled its way down waterfalls, cutting a gorge through the rocks. All at once she saw the sea ahead of them; the dragons flew over the edge of the plain and landed unexpectedly in a sandy bay, encircled by high black cliffs. At the foot of the cliffs was a ramshackle assortment of timber buildings raised on thick stilts. They had arrived. They all got stiffly off the dragons, stretching themselves, and Ottobar and Zik folded their wings and walked off towards the cave that was their home, their shadows long on the sand.

  “I’ll see to them,” said Haskell to Farren, “you show the Princess and Pom to those empty rooms at the end. Cassarian will tell the others what’s happened.”

  Farren led them to the far building and up a wooden staircase scoured by the sand and bleached by the sun. He gave Gwenderith the corner room, with windows on two walls, and a view of the expanse of sand churned by the dragons’ feet, the dark sea and the deep blue and gold sky. Pom had the room next door. He helped Farren get blankets out of a chest. Gwenderith sat on the bed, her beautiful face pale, dark shadows under her eyes.

  Farren looked at her. “Do you want me to bring you something to eat here for tonight? You can meet everyone in the morning when you’ve rested.”

  “That’s very kind of you, yes please,” Gwenderith said.

  CHAPTER 27

  No way back

  “Sire, the troops are in position. Give the word and I will instigate the attack.”

  “Good. I will let you know, Routh.” Skardroft spoke dismissively.

  Routh paused; this was not what he had meant. “I mean, Sire, have I your order to start the assault on Kallarven tomorrow?”

  Skardroft looked him in the eye. “As I said, Routh, I will tell you when I want the assault to begin.”

  “Excuse me for saying this, Your Majesty, but there can be no advantage in waiting. The men are ready; they can only get stale if we keep them hanging about. There’s also the possibility that a force may arrive to relieve the siege, whereas at the moment we have the rebels at our mercy. We can storm the Castle and finish them in a day. Leave it, and their dragon may recover and become a nuisance once more. Now is the moment to strike.”

  Skardroft frowned. He knew well enough why he was procrastinating; he feared that the day he ordered the attack on the Castle would be the day of Torbrek’s death. He was not ready to face that. He was hoping for some miracle that would spare his having to make the decision.

  “I will come to Kallarven tomorrow, to review the situation for myself. See that preparation is made for my visit.”

  “Very well, Sire.” Routh left. He could remember a time not so long ago when Skardroft would not have hesitated; hit the enemy while he was down, a knife to the heart and on to the next was the way he operated. “Go in hard and fast,” he used to say; a method that had served him well. He’d seemed keen enough when they had got hold of Barlanik’s letter, so why was he vacillating now? Perhaps he was getting old. Routh wondered what would happen to Calambria when he died, with no suitable heir to take over. Of course; that was the explanation. The granddaughter, holed up in the Castle with the other rebels.

  How long would it take Skardroft to decide which was more important, his kingdom or the life of a girl in the opposing camp who would not even thank him for saving her?

  Skardroft arrived at Kallarven Castle the afternoon of the following day. A large tent had been prepared for him, well furnished with everything he could possibly need. He had something to eat there, then he and Routh rode around the Castle among the massive numbers of his troops, which were stationed everywhere just out of bowshot of the rebel archers. They filled almost all of the space between the Castle and the forest. In places thin blue smoke rose from cooking fires. Siege engines stood ready; there were siege towers, scaling ladders by the dozen, huge stacks of branches ready to bridge the moat and a great battering ram pointing towards the Castle entrance. On the battlements Barlanik’s soldiers watched silently, waiting for signs of the assault’s commencement.

  “Very good, Routh; this all seems in excellent order.”

  “Thank you, Sire. Give the word and Kallarven can be yours.”

  “I’ll speak to you tomorrow.” Skardroft was not going to be pushed around by his own chief of staff. If it suited him to delay, they could all wait whether they liked it or not; a day or two could hardly make much difference. He was paying them, after all. He went back to his tent, thinking about the limited options open to him.

  Torbrek…till he had found her, he had not realized how much it meant to him to have an heir. What was the point, after all, of everything he had achieved, if he had no one to pass it on to? How much longer did he have – ten, twenty years? Years of fading health and strength, of less to look forward to each day, until he weakened to the point that an ambitious warrior, such as he had been thirty years before, could snatch the kingdom from him in his turn, and exile him as he had exiled Urquin.

  Too late to marry again and breed sons. He should have done that ten years ago, but then there would have been the fuss of a royal wedding, which the bride’s kin would expect; they’d look to him for preferment, too. Besides, he hadn’t wanted a wife who would be there all the time, and he found babies and children tiresome.

  There had been women, of course; one in particular, the wife of a petty official, conveniently situated in the palace. He’d visited her once or twice a week for years, and her husband never knew. She died untimely of a fever; he went to her funeral, something he seldom bothered with – what was the point – and the man grasped his hand and thanked him with tears in his eyes.

  She’d been no trouble, not demanding like a wife; he had felt no need to marry. But he should have done it anyway. An estate could have been found for a new wife and children outside Tarragon, where they wouldn’t have disturbed him.

  Too late now.

  Besides, it was Torbrek that he wanted; full of youthful vigour, fierce, spirited, good company; nobody’s fool. Why would she not see sense?

  That night he lay awake. If he had thought it would do any good, he would have begged Torbrek to leave the Castle and save herself; his pride did not matter compared to her life; but he could not imagine her agreeing.

  It might just be worth writing to Barlanik. If there was anything between him and Torbrek, he should want her out of Kallarven for her own safety. Skardroft remembered Barlanik’s sister, and how he had thought their situations similar. He lit the lamp and reached for pen and paper, knowing in his heart the futility of what he was doing, but compelled to do it anyway.

  For two days Barlanik had watched Skardroft’s soldiers massed and inactive around them, their engines of war in place, and wondered why they were not attacking. A siege made no sense, when the Ca
stle could hold out for months, and the enemy had more than enough troops to storm the walls.

  He kept his men ready to fight off an assault night or day, in case of surprise, making sure they rested while they were off duty, and doing all he could to make sure they did not either lose concentration, or get worn out by the strain of waiting. The uncertainty of the situation, the expectation of attack, the presence of a force so much superior in numbers would tell on anyone’s nerves, and Barlanik felt pride in his men’s stoicism and courage. They had started joking among themselves about the delay.

  “Dunno about you, but I can’t hang around here forever. If he doesn’t get on with it soon, that’s it, I’m not interested. They can ask nicely, but it won’t do them no good. They’ll have to fight each other instead.”

  “I reckon we’ve got it wrong. King Skardroft just thought this would be a nice place to have a picnic. Invited all his mates.”

  Xantilor’s wing was nearly healed, in the opinion of the doctor, but not quite. If the wing should still not be useable by the battle, Xantilor had agreed with Tor and Barlanik that he would wait by the Castle entrance to sear the attackers with fire once they had rammed down the door. Tor had not been assigned a position yet and her loyalties were torn; knowing this was likely to be a last fight for all of them, she had to choose between being with Xantilor or Barlanik at the end.

  Xantilor settled it. “Tor, you are a Knight and your place is beside Barlanik. Much as I would like to have you with me, you cannot help me on the ground; there will be more that you can do fighting on the battlements. You are not to worry about me, either, for I am a warrior dragon, used to fighting, and will not easily be defeated.”