The Crown and the Dragon

by John D. Payne

  Leaves rustled outside as the breeze blew through the stately mountain elms planted by her grandfather. But, glancing out the second-story window, Elenn saw nothing but the light of the moon reflected on white clouds.

  “The dragon sleeps.” said Elenn, relieved that the dragon’s fires were not lighting the night clouds orange and peach in a macabre imitation of sunrise.

  Gawaine chirped bravely.

  “You should sleep, too, little warrior,” Elenn said. “Who knows what adventures tomorrow will bring?”

  As she replaced the cover on his cage, she glanced around. In the cavernous darkness of her empty room, Elenn could not shake the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Since looting servants had left the chamber virtually devoid of furniture, there was no place to hide–except for the immense rosewood wardrobe, which had proved too heavy to cart off discreetly.

  Elenn reached under her bed and gripped the handle of her brass chamber pot, which was thankfully empty. Sliding out from under the covers, she crept up to the wardrobe, avoiding the creaky floorboard. Holding the chamber pot like a mace, Elenn reached for the latch of the wardrobe. She drew a deep breath.

  Throwing open the wardrobe door, Elenn very nearly cried “Aha!” But there was no one there, not even a moth. Elenn walked back to her bed, shoved the chamber pot under the bed, and climbed under the covers.

  “Idiot,” Elenn remonstrated herself. “There’s no one in this old house but you and Aunt Ethelind.” Over the last few months, the servants had all deserted the manor, taking many of her family’s treasured heirlooms. It was criminal, tragic even. After twenty years of occupation, who would have believed that things could get worse?

  Elenn sighed and lay back in her bed, just in time to hear a muffled knock at the front door. Her eyes flew open, and she threw back her sheet and sat up. The knock came again. The arrival of this mysterious visitor must be what had roused her from sleep. And not her only, Elenn realized, as she heard Ethelind’s bedroom door open, followed by footsteps on the stair.

  Rising silently from her bed, Elenn approached her chamber door. As she strained to understand the urgent sussuration of conspiratorial whispers coming from the front door, she remembered her aunt’s lessons in what her grandfather had dismissed as “conjuring”.

  Elenn spread her fingers out, interlocking the middle two fingers on both hands in a Leodrine gesture of blessing. Then she crossed her arms on her breast and closed her eyes. Clear your thoughts and fix your desire firmly in your mind, Aunt Ethelind said. Bend the world to your will.

  “Listen,” Elenn murmured to herself. “Hear.”

  At the bottom of the stair, the whispers stopped. Someone with heavy boots entered, and the front door closed. Then, more footsteps, and another door opened and closed. The parlor.

  Smiling, Elenn opened her eyes. She turned the knob, slowly opened the door, and inched down toward the parlor. As she neared the doorway, she saw that the door was slightly ajar. Old Rodbert was supposed to have fixed it so it would latch properly, but then he ran off with the charlady three weeks ago and left the job undone—along with many other jobs.

  Light, and the sound of tense conversation, spilled from within the parlor as Elenn approached. Her aunt and someone else spoke in hushed tones, but as Elenn drew near she could make out what they were saying.

  “—must have the Falarica.” said a rough male voice. “So you must reach Garrick no later than Lammas Eve.” Elenn did not recognize the voice. But the accent was from somewhere near Lough Aislinn, whether in the Riverlands or in Ghel, she did not know. Given Ethelind’s connections to the Leode, Elenn guessed Ghel.

  “Then I shall leave at dawn,” came the voice of Elenn’s aunt, sounding resigned. “This is a matter that must be tended to with the utmost haste.”

  “I am glad to hear you agree, my lady,” the man said, sounding relieved. “They said you might prove difficult to…” His voice trailed off into uncomfortable silence.

  Elenn, who had been on the receiving end of more than a few of Aunt Ethelind’s stony stares, could not help but grin.

  The man cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said. “I meant no disrespect. May I have your leave to go and make the necessary preparations for our departure? We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  “A long journey, yes,” said Ethelind. “But not for you. I go alone.”

  Elenn frowned. Alone? Ethelind had taken her niece with her everywhere since becoming her guardian three years ago. They had visited the castles and estates of the various noble Houses, desperately trying to unify many small acts of rebellion into one great Deiran insurrection. They had been on pilgrimages to priories and abbeys, poring over dusty old books and the murmured words of sleeping Elders, seeking the key to defeating the Vitalion.

  “My orders were to accompany you,” said the man. “The roads are not safe for a woman alone.”

  “Women alone are more resourceful than men might believe,” said Ethelind.

  Elenn’s frown deepened. Had Ethelind planned to leave her all along? Seven months ago, when Elenn had turned twenty, her aunt had declared that Elenn would never marry if she was forced to play traveling secretary to a mendicant Sister. With that, she left the Leodrine Order and the two of them had retired here, to the ancestral estate of Elenn’s adopted parents.

  Elenn had believed that Ethelind had given up on delivering Deira from the Vitalion, but she should have known that the fires of vengeance that drove her aunt could never die. Perhaps she had merely been waiting for a message like this one, summoning her to join some scruffy band of rebels.

  For seven months, Ethelind had told Elenn that she must learn to take care of herself, since she was near the age of inheritance. Elenn had joked that this was what husbands were for. It seemed less funny now, especially since the servants had all fled the estate. Ethelind could not abandon her now. Could she?

  “I know you are resourceful, my lady,” said the man. “But the roads are full of bandits, deserters, and worse. I, myself, was pursued.”

  “Bandits should know better than to harass an agent of the Order,” said Ethelind.

  “They have become bolder, my lady,” said the man. “But in truth it was a Vitalion patrol that chased me.” He paused. “And if not for the importance of this message, I would have taught them a lesson about the valor of Deira’s sons.”

  The man sounded young—close to Elenn’s age. She inched her head closer and risked a glance into the parlor. Through the not-quite-shut door, Elenn saw her aunt in a summer nightgown, her graying hair covered with a silk kerchief. Other women might have been uncomfortable entertaining a strange man so attired, but Ethelind sat straight and tall in a chair, her hands folded patiently in her lap. Even without the robes of the Leodrine Order, she wore authority like a mantle.

  “Deira has many valiant sons, but fewer of good judgement,” said Ethelind. “Thank you for your discretion, Ranulf.”

  “Duty before all, my lady—even honor,” said the man, Ranulf. With that name, he was definitely from Ghel.

  Ranulf stood before Ethelind, carrying a cavalry helmet under his arm. He looked about twenty-five. He wore a leather plait-jack, and a great sword was strapped to his back, along with a plain bull-hide shield. His travel-stained tunic was decorated with the emblem of the Leode—a growing tree inside a chain of interlocked rings. His hair and beard were bedraggled, but he was not bad-looking, in a rough sort of way.

  “Still, I’m surprised they bothered you,” said Ethelind. “The Vitalion generally leave the Orders alone.”

  “Corvus has spies everywhere,” said Ranulf. “Perhaps he has finally penetrated the Order.”

  “No,” said Ethelind dismissively, “there’s something new at work here.” She tapped her fingers against her lips. “Perhaps the new Imperator is moving against us. That would be a troubling development.”

  “All the more reason to depart swiftly, my lady,” said Ranulf. “The Vitalion patrol may foll
ow me yet—perhaps at my very heels. Forgive my impertinence, but my instructions were quite clear. Garrick must have the Falarica—”

  “By Lammas Eve,” said Ethelind. “Yes, I know.” She stood. “I will leave at dawn. Thank you for conveying your message so diligently.”

  Elenn whipped her head back from the crack in the door. She had lingered too long. Not wanting to be caught at the door, Elenn inched toward the stair.

  “A pleasure to serve,” Ranulf said.

  “Deira needs more sons like you,” said Ethelind. “Sleep well tonight, faithful Ranulf. You have earned it.”

  “If my lady can forgive the suggestion,” Ranulf said, “I should like to prepare your horses for you. Tomorrow you will be on the road, alone. If you won’t let me escort you, please let me assist you tonight before you are beyond the reach of my help.”

  “You have a generous heart, Ranulf,” said Ethelind, “and I thank you. But I will not be truly alone tomorrow. I will have my niece, Elenn, who is quite capable.”

  Halfway to the stair, Elenn stopped and smiled. She was not to be abandoned. Then again, from the way this man talked about the roads … Elenn shivered.

  “Elenn and I have traveled to every corner of this land in the last three years,” said Ethelind, “and I am sure the Gods will watch over us on this journey no less than any other.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Ranulf spoke again. “If anything should happen, the Leode has forever been a safe refuge. The Leodrine said you will always be welcome there.”

  “That is kind of her,” said Ethelind. “She is well?”

  “She is well,” said Ranulf. “She awaits the prophecy.”

  “As do we all,” said Ethelind, “in our own ways.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Ranulf. He coughed slightly. “Well,” he said, with a jingling of arms and armor, “morning fast approaches.”

  “Time for us all to be abed,” Ethelind agreed. “I will wake you before dawn.”

  “Daylight will not find me here, my lady,” said Ranulf.

  “Where will you go?” said Ethelind.

  “South,” said Ranulf, “in case the patrol still follows me, or Corvus’s spies are watching.” There was the sound of a sword being drawn. “By my life I swear I will lead the Vitalion away from your door.”

  “That is… very gallant of you,” said Ethelind. “There is a dun mare named Gerta in our stable. She is no war horse, but she is rested and strong. If taking her would aid you, she is yours.”

  “I am sure she will serve me well,” said Ranulf. “May I offer you my own mount in exchange? By dawn he should be rested enough to carry you. Or your niece.” He paused. “Do you have another horse?”

  “One is enough,” said Ethelind. “Your steed can pull the two of us, and a few of our possessions, in our little tub-cart. It will not be a speedy journey, but we will attract little attention—just two more refugees fleeing the chaos of the Riverlands. We should reach Garrick well before Lammas Eve.”

  “I pray safe travels for you and your niece,” said Ranulf. “The future of Deira and the hope of our people go with you.”

  “So let it be,” said Ethelind. “And safe travels for you as well.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Ranulf. Elenn heard the creak of leather and the jingle of metal buckles as Ranulf knelt. “May I have your blessing, before I depart?”

  “Of course,” said Ethelind.

  As her aunt invoked the blessings of the Gods on Ranulf, Elenn quickly ascended the stair. Opening the door to her chamber, Elenn slipped into bed. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, and the clatter of hooves outside, Elenn pulled the satin sheet up over her head and feigned sleep. Hearing the chamber door open, she ventured a light snore.

  “Elenn,” said Ethelind quietly.

  Elenn said nothing and continued to snore.

  “Elenn,” called Ethelind less quietly. “Rise, child.”

  Elenn inhaled deeply as if just waking up. She stirred slowly, and pulled the covers down from over her head. Blinking, she faked a yawn. “Aunt Ethelind?” she asked.

  “Dress yourself,” said Ethelind. “Plain. We are leaving.” She turned to leave.

  “Where are we going?” Elenn asked, trying to sound groggy.

  “I know you were eavesdropping,” said Ethelind, standing at the door, “so you can stop the mummer’s act.”

  Elenn stopped in the middle of an exaggerated stretch, feeling foolish. Ethelind walked out the door, and Elenn could hear her entering her own chamber.

  “I might have heard a few things,” said Elenn, “but I still don’t understand what this is all about and why we have to leave.”

  “I’ll explain later,” came Ethelind’s voice from the adjoining chamber. “But right now I want you up and about.”

  “You told that man we would leave at dawn,” called Elenn.

  “If we’re to be on the road at dawn, there’s work to do,” said Ethelind, her strong voice carrying through the door. “For a start, someone’s got to go care for that man’s horse. He’s been riding it hard, and he didn’t even have time to cool it off, the poor thing. We’ll need it to be ready to walk in the morning.”

  “Let the—” Let the groom take care of the horse, Elenn had intended to say. But the groom had left more than a month ago with their two best horses. Elenn sighed and hopped out of bed. Finding her shoes, she picked up the bird cage, still covered.

  “What did I tell you, little Gawaine?” Elenn said, carrying his cage down to the stables. “Tomorrow is bringing us an adventure after all.”

  ***

  Chapter Four

  In a large, stone-walled pit in the courtyard of Tantillion castle stood Bartram Valerius Pugh Corvus, Magister of the Vitalion Empire, stripped to the waist and gripping a falcata—the heavy, forward-curved legionary sword. The pit was built for executions, bear baiting, and other entertainments. But tonight instead of bears or wild dogs, Corvus faced six of his own legionaries.

  Three of the soldiers stood with their backs to the wall, watching. The others circled Corvus warily, their own sickle-shaped swords at the ready. They shot glances at each other as if trying to determine who would take the lead. Dressed in their heavy scale armor, they were sweaty and looked weary.

  “Begin,” said Corvus to the three legionaries, speaking in Vitalae. He beckoned to the nearest of them, Septor Bruttius, but neither he nor his companions made any aggressive move.

  It was three hours past sundown, and outside Tantillion’s curtain-wall the countryside was dark, except for the dim red glow of dragon-fire far to the north. Corvus preferred to spar at night, especially in the summer. He also preferred to spar with real swords. Dull blades made for dull wits.

  Corvus leapt at the soldier at his left, Quintus Caecina, catching him unprepared and sending his curved falcata spinning with a deft flick of the wrist. Then Corvus kicked him backward into the wall, where Quintus hit his helmeted head with a loud clang and sank to the sandy floor.

  This strike, though successful, left him vulnerable to attacks from Bruttius and the third guard, Hostus Hostilius. And for several seconds, Corvus grudgingly surrendered ground before their combined assault, barely able to keep them both at bay.

  “Hope you got your coin handy,” taunted Hostilius.

  “You haven’t earned that bonus yet,” said Corvus, grinning. Then, stepping backward, he kicked Quintus’s fallen sword up and caught it in his left hand. Bruttius and Hostilius stopped and exchanged glances.

  “You going to let an old man beat you?” Corvus laughed. Nearly forty, he was twice the age of either of these two young soldiers. But it was keen wits that kept a man alive, and Corvus kept his razor sharp. “No wonder the Empire hasn’t finished conquering Deira.”

  Bruttius shifted his feet uneasily, and looked to his fellow guard.

  “Keep talking, old man,” said Hostilius. “Doesn’t change the odds.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Corvus. Then he at
tacked, furiously spinning both swords in a wicked series of cuts and slashes at Hostilius. Most men facing two threats would address the easiest, but Corvus had always dealt with greater dangers first. It robbed his strongest opponents of initiative, while giving weaklings the opportunity to run, hide, or switch sides.

  In the pit, of course, Bruttius couldn’t do any of these. But he fell back, and then slyly maneuvered to get behind Corvus. Meanwhile, Hostilius unleashed a furious assault, trying to keep Corvus’s attention.

  As Bruttius was about to slip out of Corvus’s peripheral vision, Corvus feinted forward, exposing his back. Bruttius lunged in for the kill, but Corvus spun and trapped Bruttius’s falcata with his own two curved blades. With a quick jerk, Bruttius was disarmed, his sword flying against the wall of the pit, where the waiting legionaries had to duck.

  “You’re finished,” said Corvus.

  But Bruttius growled and leapt in to grapple, his breastplate and armor protecting him from Corvus’s two swords. The attack was so unexpected that Bruttius succeeded in trapping the sword in Corvus’s left hand, forcing him to drop it.

  “Who’s finished now?” snarled Bruttius.

  For a few tense moments, Corvus and Bruttius shuffled in a tight circle, both men trying to gain control of the sword in Corvus’s right hand. At the same time, they struggled for position, Bruttius trying to offer Corvus’s unprotected back to Hostilius, while Corvus tried to use Bruttius as a shield.

  “Yield!” cried Hostilius.

  “Never!” said Corvus, feeling the savage thrill of combat rush through his veins.

  He head-butted Bruttius, breaking his nose. Pressing his advantage, Corvus punched him with sword's hand-guard and twisted out of the big legionary's grip. As Bruttius staggered back, Corvus sent him sprawling with a vicious kick.

  Hostilius had to dodge Bruttius to avoid getting entangled in his flailing limbs. Then he stalked forward, his sword darting out to meet Corvus’s own.

  “Just you and me now,” said Hostilius, his face a grim mask of determination.