by Scott Bury
The coughing kept them awake all the next night. Until it stopped.
Ketia wept continuously for weeks. Javor never saw her without tears on her face. But she continued cooking and mending and cleaning and looking after her last child.
“I think about them every day,” she had answered Javor on that summer day, only a few days but an entire lifetime earlier. “But we can’t bring them back.”
Once, Javor knew, Ketia had been a pretty woman with long, dark hair that shone as it cascaded over her shoulders. Now, her hair was gray and ragged, lines circled her mouth and neck and she seemed to squint all the time. She smiled rarely, and when she did, Javor could see gaps between her teeth. She occasionally complained of several more loose teeth.
But her voice, her voice was still high and musical and the sweetest sound that Javor knew.
Can you ever forgive me?
Wolves howling brought Javor back to the night. The moon and stars were quickly covered by swirling black clouds. Clouds never move that fast, he thought.
The villagers stopped talking; mothers held their children closer. The wind blew dust around the holody.
Clouds come in before the wind starts? That never happened before.
Javor stood and looked over the stockade. Even the trees in the forest seemed to have come closer. The wolves sounded closer, howling to each other as if they were planning a strategy. And there was another noise, too: something moving through the woods, breaking boughs and crashing through underbrush.
Photius appeared beside Javor, peering into the night. The darkness seemed to be a thick smoke.
“What’s going on?” Javor asked.
“Something is coming for you, Javor,” Photius whispered. “Another of Ghastog’s lieutenants, like the drake on the mountain side.”
A violent gust blew out most of the campfires and all of the torches. Then the wind stopped entirely. The forest was completely silent, without any sound. None of the villagers dared make a noise.
No one was sleeping now. Most of the men crept to the palisade to peek over its northern edge. A sudden rushing noise came from above and the wind came back, pushing down hard. Then something hit Javor from above, knocking him sprawling to the ground. He looked up and the sky above was blotted out. He heard Photius yelling. He saw what for a moment looked like branches of trees, stripped of their bark. No—those were teeth, long fangs, a dozen of them at least, in a maw that was gaping for his head. He realized it was the dragon from the mountain as it settled one hideous claw on his chest. The talons ripped his clothes, even the ancient armour he had taken from the monster’s cave.
As dragons go, it was not huge. Its body was about the size of a horse, but its neck was as long again. A long, long tail ended in a whip shape. It had a head like a snake’s, but longer, with sharp, short horns and flaring ears like bats’ wings. Its skin was black and scaly, shining almost wetly in the firelight. Its eyes were red as flames, shaped like a cat’s, no, like a snake’s, slitted and hypnotic. Javor felt his will bending, he felt he wanted to submit to this fiend. Then another voice spoke to his mind, to a deeper part of his very being, and his hand went to his neck.
As soon as his fingers touched the amulet, the dragon’s head recoiled with an angry hiss. It lifted its claw quickly as if Javor’s touch burned it. Javor scrambled to his feet, whipped out the sword he had taken from Ghastog’s cave and slashed. The enchanted blade slid across the dragon’s neck, drawing the slightest scratch on its hide. Black blood oozed along the blade’s edge and began to smoke. Javor watched the blade evaporate until the dragon’s whip-like tail slashed his legs from under him.
“The dagger! The dagger!” It was Photius, running across the holody. The top of his staff glowed and his cloak waved behind him as he ran, swift for an old man. His own sword banged against his side with each step. “Use the dagger!” he cried.
Medvediu’s dagger! Javor scrambled to his feet again as, almost of its own volition, the knife swept out of its sheath with a ringing sound. Instinctively, Javor grasped the hilt between two hands and held it in front of him, facing the dragon, which drew back from the blade.
The world faded away for Javor again, leaving only the dagger and the dragon, but he had no idea what to do next. The dragon seemed to realize it, too. Its head struck forward, stabbing with its long teeth. The dagger seemed to move of its own will, slashing down at the neck. The dragon dodged at the last instant, hissing. Its spittle hit the ground, smoking and hissing.
The dragon raised itself on its rear legs and, screaming, swiped at Javor with its front claws. Again the dagger led Javor’s arms, out up and down, a mighty sweeping stroke at the demon’s extended leg. Javor felt a shock and a rush and saw a spray of black blood and realized he had shorn off the dragon’s front left foot.
The dragon’s screaming hit a deafening note. It spewed froth from its mouth, a venom that burned whatever it touched. Its tail thrashed madly, knocking Photius down and sending his glowing stick clattering on the stones. It stretched out its wide wings, beat them twice and lifted into the night sky, disappearing with a gasping, choking scream.
Javor helped Photius to his feet. “Are you all right?” the old man asked. Javor gasped and nodded. But before he could say anything, before he could even think, a sudden gust shook the trees. Javor climbed up the palisade again. A shadow deeper than the night swept over the grassy slope and then WHAM! a huge impact shuddered the palisade, knocking the watchers down.
Pandemonium now inside the holody as the villagers panicked. WHAM! again, another blow to the flimsy walls, and women were screaming, children crying and men shouting. Every dog in the village was howling and the other animals were bleating, lowing and rushing around, trying to get away from the force that was trying to get in.
“Weapons, everyone, whatever you have! They’re ramming the gate!” Roslaw shouted.
Javor clung to the palisade, peering into the night, but no matter how he tried he couldn’t see anyone, let alone an organized army battering the log walls. Another impact knocked him onto his back.
Photius strode to the gate, his cloak billowing behind him, showing his armour and long sword. His walking staff was glowing again. “Lift me up to the top of the stockade!” he shouted. The villagers hesitated. “Help me up!” he commanded, and men rushed to stack up benches against the wall. Javor stood behind Photius as he climbed the makeshift structure, ready to catch the old man at the next impact.
Photius raised his staff and the light at the top grew blinding. “Begone!” he shouted. “You cannot come in. Your master is destroyed. Leave this village now! Begone!”
Everything stopped then, all movement, all sound, as if in expectation. Photius’ staff glowed like daylight, but no one dared to look over the palisade. Then another crash shook the walls, the logs of the gate splintered, and despite the villagers standing behind him, Photius fell back onto the ground. The wind came again and extinguished Photius’ light. There was another rushing sound from beyond the palisade, a sound like something big and heavy retreating, moving back to the forest. Slowly, life seemed to return to normal. Someone rekindled the campfires and torches.
Javor was immediately at Photius’ side, helping him up. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Thank you, Javor.”
“Who was it, Photius?” It was Roslaw. “More raiders?”
“No, not raiders, but another fiend from the same hell as Ghastog. Rest yourselves for now—it won’t be back tonight. I made certain of it. You all should get as much rest as you can, tonight.”
No one slept the rest of that night, but it was quiet. The clouds parted from the moon, then disappeared. The wolves were silent. The villagers huddled around their fires, not speaking other than to comfort their children. Together, they waited long hours for a cold grey dawn.
Javor and Photius hunkered down apart from the villagers. “How do you feel, my boy?” the older man asked. He offered Javor more of his wine.
Javor couldn’t find his voice, so he nodded. He still felt breathless. Finally, he croaked out, “Was that the same dragon from the mountain-side?”
Photius nodded. “Another of Ghastog’s lieutenants, I think. That means we have drawn two of them here after us, and I don’t think they’re as anxious for simple revenge as you were, Javor. They want something.”
“My great-grandfather’s amulet.”
“Or the dagger. One or both of them hold great power, my boy, something these monsters fear a great deal. Let me see the knife.”
Reluctantly, Javor drew the dagger from its sheath. Making a dim light with his staff, Photius squinted at the markings around its edge. “Hmm. Runes,” he said, pursing his lips. “I’m not certain what they mean; they’re of an unfamiliar form, perhaps in an ancient Asian language. You say your great-grandfather brought it back from the Caucasus?”
“Yes, that’s what my mother said. He slew a giant and took it and the amulet from its hoard.”
“Hmm. Let me see the amulet.” Just as reluctantly, Javor took the amulet from under his tunic and took the chain off his neck and handed it to Photius, who inspected it closely, running his fingers over the runes carved around its outer edge. “If your great-grandfather found these in the Caucasus, then this amulet and this dagger could have originated even farther east, or south. I am not certain, but these markings on the amulet seem to be an invocation against evil, a protection for the bearer. And these,” he pointed to marks on one side of the dagger, “are similar to others I have seen before, which usually signify that only those who are worthy may wield the blade. That’s why it has an affinity for you, Javor, and why the amulet of its own accord left the grasp of Ghastog for yours.”
“But if it’s a protection against evil, then why do the monsters want it?” Javor asked.
“Ah!” Photius held up one finger, as if about to impart a lesson. But he failed. “That is a very good question, but for now I do not have the answer. Suffice it to say, though, that the monsters do want it, and obviously it’s very important that they do not get it. Ghastog had been hunting this for many years, Javor; it moved into this region decades ago and has roved around here, spreading destruction ever since. As for why, I do not know. I have colleagues, however, in Constantinople who may be able to decipher this mystery. But for now, let us rest.” Photius’ staff dimmed again. He settled against a tree stump. “I’ll let you take the first watch, Javor. But I have the feeling that if anything happens, you won’t need to wake me.” He fell asleep.
Javor watched Photius close his eyes and fall asleep almost instantly. How can he look so peaceful, so quickly? How can he sleep after all that’s happened?
Too much. It’s too much.
Maybe I have already gone crazy. Maybe I am imagining all of this—the dragon, the monster. Maybe if I close my eyes, I will be back in my bed.
He tried it, but when he opened them again he did not see his mother in front of the plescha, did not hear his father snoring on the next mat. He was still slumped in the middle of the village, looking into a small fire. Another villager looking at him would have seen a slack, blank look, eyes staring sightlessly into the flames. They would have thought Javor was exhausted beyond sleep, beyond thought. And they would have thought, as they had many times before, that he was a strange, somewhat addled young man who never seemed to be paying attention to the world around himself.
They would have been wrong, as usual.
Javor kept his armour on through the night, dozing in turns next to Photius, but he didn’t sleep much. In the morning, Roslaw brought Photius and Javor bread and water. With him were a group of other men of the village, including Borys, Mrost and even Javor’s uncle Bogud. “We’ve gathered some food and other supplies for you, not a lot but enough for a few days, at least. For both of you.”
“Why?” asked Javor, but he knew the answer already.
“We think—all of us, Javor, even your aunt and uncle—that it’s best if you, if you ... if both of you leave as soon as you can. I’m sorry, boy, but I have the whole village to think of, not just one person. Like it or not, these monsters appeared soon after you did, Photius, and we all think that the sooner you go, so will the monsters. And I’m sorry, Javor, but you seemed mixed up with this traveller and his enemies, too. If you leave soon, you should be able to put a lot of distance between yourselves and whatever that was in the night.”
“A lot of distance?”
Roslaw nodded, but Mrost spoke up before he had a chance to say anything. “Three monsters in five days, and they’re after you. The farther you go, the safer we’ll all be,” he sneered.
“So now you say they’re after me—and now you’re afraid to be near me. Who’s the coward now, eh, Mrost?” Javor said.
Mrost spat on the ground. “That’s what I think of you fighting anything. Just get out, Javor.”
In a single fluid motion, Javor grabbed Mrost’s wrist, twisted it behind his back and kicked his backside. Mrost fell face-first in the dust. “You get out, Mrost. My parents are dead and I don’t feel like hearing your voice anymore.”
Someone touched his arm, and Javor spun, whipping the enchanted dagger out to find himself holding it to Roslaw’s throat. “Now, now, Javor,” the older man sputtered, trying to sound conciliatory but trembling with fear. “There’s no need for fighting among ourselves, especially when we’re surrounded by as many enemies as we are.”
“He is right, Javor. Put away your weapon,” said a low, calm voice. It was Vorona. As usual, she had come into their midst without their notice. She wore her plain grey hood and cloak, but just looking at her made Javor hold his breath. “You have proven yourself in battle, Javor, and you have been anointed. Now you are ready.”
Javor put away the dagger. “We’ve prepared enough food for you and Photius for some days. Perhaps you should say goodbye to your friends and leave early, so you can make some distance and perhaps find some shelter before dark.”
Javor looked at Photius, whose face was unreadable. But the old man nodded.
“All right,” Javor said slowly. “I’ll go right now.”
Just inside the gate, the elders of the village—those who were left alive, such as Roslaw, Borys, Bogud and a few other men—had prepared a backpack for Javor. “It has your things from your parents’ house,” said his uncle. Photius was ready to go; he wore his cloak and wide-brimmed hat, and a full pack on his back. On the ground were also some bags of food that Javor and Photius could carry over their shoulders. Behind the men, the rest of the villagers had gathered in an uneasy mob.
Hrech came out of the crowd with tears in his eyes. He hugged Javor so tightly that Javor had trouble breathing. Javor squeezed back and patted his shoulder until Hrech let go and, head low, turned away.
Javor went to Elli, who stood with her friends. She drew back, looking around for help. Javor had imagined making a grand speech, but now he couldn’t think of anything to say. “Good-bye, Elli,” he said, awkwardly, taking her hands in his. “I ... I’ll miss you.” Stupid, that’s not good enough! Do it! he thought. “I love you.” Her eyes went wide and she shrank back again. Javor leaned forward to kiss her cheek, but Elli leaned back, whimpering, and Javor gave up. He turned away, picked up the back-pack and shoulder bags and without another word strode out of the holody.
Photius fell into step beside him and together they turned south in the late morning sunshine. Neither spoke and neither looked back.
###
End of Part 1.
###
Part 2: Tests
Chapter 7: Journeying south
His voice, Javor thought, is so irritating. No matter what the old man was saying, even when Javor didn’t pay attention to the words, the raspy, dry sound could put him on edge. While he barely heard him sometimes, at other times he wished Photius would just shut up: early in the morning, and also when the sun shone hot onto his head as they walked, scorching the back of his neck when they rested or gathered
firewood before they camped down for the night. He never stops talking. How can he keep going on?
“Where are we going?” he had asked that first day, as they left the village.
“South, first, to the border of the Empire, and then to Constantinople,” Javor answered.
“Is it far?”
“Many leagues. We are well beyond the Empire’s borders, and the capital is another long journey within those borders.”
“How long will it take?”
“Since we are travelling on foot, it will take some weeks, I believe.”
“Don’t you know?”
Photius walked into a thick stand of trees, reached up and carefully took something he had hidden there: a bow and a quiver of arrows. Photius slung them over opposite shoulders. He sighed. “My boy, I did not take a direct route from Constantinople to your little village in the wilderness. It has taken me literally years of searching to find you and your great-grandfather’s treasures. Fortunately, it took Ghastog just as long.”
“Not ‘fortunately,’” said Javor, choking, and found himself weeping.
Photius led the way south until Javor saw his favourite tree—the tree he always climbed, every time he passed it when he was outside the village. It was a beech whose lowest branches were out of reach of everyone in the village except for him. He jumped, grabbed the branch and hauled himself up. He climbed until the branches were too small to bear his weight anymore and looked back at his village and the holody. He looked while the breeze tickled his cheek, and the leaves shaded him from the high sun. Eventually, he climbed down and joined Photius again. They walked in silence.
They stopped when the sun drove them into the shade. Photius shared some of his wine and their food from the village, and Javor filled their water-skins at a stream before they continued south.
Javor grew more anxious through the day; he expected the dragon to pounce on them. “Worry not, my boy,” said Photius as he hopped across a small stream. “It will take time to recover its strength after you cut off its claw.” But toward sunset, he climbed a small, bare hill that gave them a wide view of forests and meadows and in the distance, both north and south, a hint of mountains. Just as the sun touched the horizon, Photius raised his arms and spoke a long, rambling spell in what sounded to Javor like the same ancient language he had used outside Ghastog’s cave.
