Why are they doing this? Why now? I thought angrily. It must be because of my father and his illness. But did he know they were here? Did he approve of their task? Would I be able to contain my anger when I saw Rik and the others? I had been so close to my goal – if my brothers had just stayed out of it, then I would have been able to tell my father about how the Abbot was one of the only Mages here at the monastery, and that the alliance with the dragons of the crater was fragile to say the least. There might have been another way to do this, I kept thinking. Char’s father, the Northern Prince. Could we have joined with him before now? I held the banner high so that it’s white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze, and kept on walking until my legs ached.
The stone roadway was wide, but the trees were taller as I descended from the mountain and walked towards the army. I could no longer see the light of a thousand glittering torches spread out around the base of the mountain, I could only hear a distant murmur on the breeze, and the occasional sharp jangle of horses’ tack.
I was almost to where I thought the troops should be when something hissed from the trees to break apart on the road near my feet. A war arrow. I paused, raising my banner high. They must not have seen the flag clearly.
But then another arrow speared into the ground on the other side of me. I was a sitting duck here on the open road, and for a brief instant it occurred to me that perhaps Feodor had tricked me—perhaps the flag I carried did not signal that I wanted to parley. I had only just thought this when slowly, shadows emerged from the trees. I recognized them immediately as my father’s scouts. They were rangy, thin sorts of men and women, armed with bows and short blades, wearing muted browns and forest greens, their hair and beards long and braided. Most of them were hunters for my father, who also employed them to range ahead of his armies and bring back information.
“Halt!” shouted the first, a man with an explosion of ruddy hair.
“Parley,” I called out. “Parley from the Draconis Order.”
“I’ll believe it if the monks all walk out of there and beg for forgiveness,” the man hissed, keeping his bow taut as he crept towards me, before suddenly looking at me as if I had sprouted wings. “Neill? Is that the chief’s youngest?” His expression changed to consternation, but he eased his grip on his bow.
“Aye. Rudie, isn’t it?” I said, acknowledging the head scout. “It’s Neill of Torvald, son of Malos Torvald, and sent to learn at the Draconis Order.”
Rudie, the chief scout, shook his head that this was past his authority, but put his weapon down. “Well, follow me, little master. Seeing as it’s you, I won’t tell the lads to tie you up.”
“Wow, cheers then, and well met,” I offered, but Rudie apparently wasn’t open to humor tonight. He appeared wary and nervous, and I guessed it was because of the occasional dragon cries and shrieks—no longer Paxala’s, but the residents of the crater—that could be heard way up behind us, as the wyrms sensed so many humans nearby.
We walked in silence, me still holding the white banner of parley as I was escorted off the road towards the army encampment surrounding the village. We were challenged by my father’s guards as we crossed the hastily-dug ditches, but Rudie waved them off.
My father and brothers had wasted nothing, apparently. They had brought nearly every trained soldier and fighter that we had. We Torvalds were good at warring, and I had been to a few army encampments in my time, and was used to seeing the many smaller campfires, which small squadrons of men and women organized themselves, encircled with tepees or bivouac dirt-scrape tents. Not many tell you this about war, but there was an unexpected loudness to the camp, as there were also a few minstrels dotted here and there, and people loudly arguing, shouting, or declaring how many monks they were going to kill.
My stomach churned. I didn’t care too much about Olan and his ilk – but some of the people up there, Nan Barrow, monks like Feodor—there were a few good souls who might get caught up in the slaughter.
It wasn’t a festive noise though, as tension rippled between the camps as people kept on raising their eyes heavenwards, to see if that shadow scudding the predawn skies was an errant cloud, or a dragon.
“Is it true they have dragons?” Rudie asked once we got close to the giant yurt with double smoke holes that would house my father and brothers. I hoped that my father was there, I could tell him what I knew. I could parley for the lives of my friends.
And I could parley to be left here, at the monastery. I bit my lip. It was something that I could see I might have to ask of him. How was Paxala going to survive without me and Char there looking after her? Could the dragon be moved to some other location? But where? Where else could Char and I both work with Paxala—teach her what she needed to know? To learn from her the secrets of the dragons?
“Yes,” I said simply, and neither of us said anything after that. It seemed enough for both of our worries. I did not want the dragons harmed. Well, not Paxala and the other younger dragons, at least. Zaxx, on the other hand…
Two of my father’s largest guards made to challenge me, but, upon seeing who it was and inspecting the parley banner to make sure it wasn’t secretly a spear or a blow dart, nodded that I was to go through. I could hear muttered curses and amazed whispers around me as the assembled fighters of Torvald wondered if I was a traitor or if I had truly been a spy for my father.
Both, I thought sadly, ever since that evening when Char had shown me Paxala, had I felt conflicted in my loyalties, and now I knew that I would rather see Paxala and Char safe than help my brothers to ransack the monastery. My uncle had been right all along, I may be a warlord’s son, but I was still me, Neill Torvald. I didn’t have to act like a warrior just to please my father, but in keeping my oaths, I was my father’s son even if I didn’t act like my brothers. I ducked under the tent flap to find myself almost knocked back by the smell of roasting meat and laughing people. The command yurt was a large round space, with two fires on metal brackets in the center like a double-yoked egg. Around half of the tent were wide benches at which sat the captains, headmen-and-women, chosen fighters, and trusted advisers. It was customary for the Torvalds to feast before a battle as well as after it. As my father would put it, “At least have one belly full of food in this world before you meet the next!” He would end in a roar of laughter, but I had never quite seen the humor of it.
At the far end of the yurt there was a raised area built out of wood, and three chairs draped with skins and hides. The central one—my father’s—was empty, but at one dozed the form of my brother Rubin, while standing on the decking with a wine cup in his hand exhorted Rik, his whole leg splinted and bandaged from the last skirmish. He was cheering and shouting at a wrestling match being held between two drunk fighters, which gradually came to a thudding standstill as everyone in the tent saw me standing there, dressed in Draconis Order robes, and carrying the Draconis Order flag.
“Little brother? What is the meaning of this?” hailed Rik, greeting me with a raised wine cup and a cruel grin. “You carry the flag of that place up there?”
“I carry the offer of parley for the Draconis Order, yes, Rik,” I said wearily as I set it against the nearest table. I knew that my brothers would be hostile and aggressive to me, and I was sick of it. I am no oath breaker, I reminded myself. I have tried to do my father’s bidding, and in so doing I have found that there are more important things than kingdoms and crowns and swords. There is friendship. There is trust. I walked forward to warm my hands before the nearest fire bracket. I was tired of this arguing and bickering, and tired of the hatred and condescension from my brothers. “Is father here?” I said irritably. “I have important matters to discuss with him.”
“Father?” Rik sneered at me. “You come here, bearing that flag, and beg to speak to my father?”
“Our father, Rik – and I didn’t beg,” I said, turning around to face him. “This is important, Rik. We haven’t got time for your squabbles.”
Rik glowered at
me, throwing the wine cup at the nearest wrestler. “How dare you, you little worm!” he shouted. “You’re not even a full-blooded Torvald. You’re nothing but a treacherous bastard.” He made to leap off of the platform, but his injury only allowed him to stumble and snarl as he got to the floor opposite me. “Why don’t you crawl back up to the monastery there and beg them to take you in—we don’t want you!” he spat. “Father isn’t here, because father is gravely ill–because Healer Garret was filling him full of Ghoul’s Cap!”
His words caused a ripple of alarm from those around us. Ghoul’s Cap was a nasty little green mushroom that could make you sick in small doses, and weak and feeble in larger amounts.
“Healer Garret?” I said in alarm. Thank the stars, they stopped him.
“Oh yes, we found out your little friend Garret when we caught him writing scrolls for a Messenger dragon. Thought you could poison my father, did you?” Rik thundered. “All so that your new friends could appoint you be the Chief Warden, is that it?”
“No!” I said, outraged. How could he think that?
Because it’s true, my heart knew. Wasn’t it just what the Abbot had told me, up in that tower? That he would rather there wasn’t the hassle of a new Warden, but that he would seek to have a new Warden that he had personally chosen. Was that why he had invited me here in the first place? The realization bloomed in me, as I saw how almost all of this year’s students were from important families in one way or another. I mean, I had known that the Draconis Order wanted to influence us, wanted all of the royal scions, the sons and daughters of the clans to think favorably of them – but then had come the strange meditations. Maybe the Abbot wanted to use all of us to install his own fanatics in every high seat of power throughout the Three Kingdoms.
“That was nothing – nothing to do with me! Father sent me to the monastery, remember?” Although, I had to admit that my brother was right in the fact that seemed to be precisely the plan that the Abbot Ansall appeared to have for me.
“All I know is, brother, is that my father is gravely ill at home, and the true sons of Torvald will not stand for this outrage, will we?” Rik turned to where Rubin, my other brother, had woken up and was regarding us both solemnly. Rubin had always been the more steadfast and thoughtful of the two. I had to hope that would still be true now, or else there would be no hope of a peaceful resolution to all this.
“No,” Rubin said heavily. “But speak your piece, Neill. What is it that the monks are offering?”
Nothing would have been the correct answer, if I had followed the Abbot’s advice. However, it was clear Feodor was a much better tactician than the Abbot.
“The Draconis Order sent me down here to tell you they have the Prince of the Middle Kingdom, along with a contingent of his personal knights up there in the monastery with him. The monks seek a peaceful end to this conflict, and a reduction in hostilities by morning,” I said, as loudly and as clearly as I could. The implied promise and threat was obvious. An act of aggression against the monastery would be an act of war, but also, my brothers must decide whether to honor their liege lord the prince.
“The prince?” Rik laughed out loud, clapping his hands together. “Oh, this is incredible! What do you think, brother? We could take the prince as well? Ransom him back to the palace, or to one of his brothers? Prince Lander has always seemed to be quite a sensible chap, although Prince Griffith has more money…”
“Lander and Griffith would probably pay us to kill him!” Rubin scoffed.
“Unless…” From the devious smirk that appeared on his face, it was clear a new idea had occurred to Rik. “Prince Vincent is up there. And we have the far bigger army. You know what father always said about Prince Vincent – that he wasn’t good enough to lead the Middle Kingdom anyway…”
“Rik…” Rubin warned. He and I both knew the thoughts that were going through Rik’s head. This is it, isn’t it? This is the moment when my brothers decide to try and topple the prince for themselves. But the wounded Rik couldn’t stop himself.
“Fancy half a kingdom, brother?” Rik said slyly. “We can send word to Lander and Griffith as well – if they want their rivalry with the Middle Kingdom ended, then now is their chance! We’ll be heroes…” Rik said in awe, before adding, “We could be princes.”
“Rik, please!” I begged him, thinking of Char and Dorf and the others up there. “We have to speak to father before we do this. What will he think about you plunging not just Torvald, but the Three Kingdoms into civil war?”
“Shut up, bastard,” Rik snarled at me, turning to point a stiletto dagger I hadn’t even known that he had been holding at my face. “In fact, you go and tell your priest or Abbot or whatever it is that you have up there—you go and tell him that the Sons of Torvald demand that the Prince Vincent be delivered to us by morning, or else we will march on the monastery – dragons or no.”
“Hundreds will die, thousands across the Middle Kingdom and beyond,” I said.
“Have you become a coward now, as well as a traitor, little brother?” Rik said. I was about to argue with him, but suddenly he nodded and hands seized me and dragged me backwards, followed by a savage kick in the back and a blow to the head.
When I woke up again to a woozy feeling of agony spreading throughout my limbs, it was to find that I was lying on the stone roadway that led back up to the monastery, just above the treeline, where the air was coldest. Someone had thoughtfully left the parley flag covering me, although it was muddied, ripped, and its pole broken as if it had been dragged through the mud (along with me). They didn’t chuck me in chains, at least, I thought. Before realizing that of course they wouldn’t – they had to deliver their ‘message’ back to the monastery somehow. I had failed. My heart thumped wildly as the sheer enormity of what was about to happen fell upon me. There was going to be a battle, and then there was going to be a war. And what would Prince Lander or Prince Griffith do then? Why wouldn’t they jump in to try and finally carve up the Middle Kingdom between them?
I guess that is their answer then. I pushed myself painfully to my feet, wondering when I had last had a decent night’s sleep, and whether I would ever get one again, as I carried the tattered pieces of the white flag back up the slope to the black walls of the Dragon Monastery above. The light was a washed, out, mealy sort of grey. Dawn would be upon us all before long, and then the Dragon Order and the Sons of Torvald would go to war, and the Middle Kingdom would be in revolt.
“Hoi! It’s the Torvald boy!” someone shouted from the gatehouse above, and there was the sound of crunching metal and thumping wood as the braces were pulled back from the smaller wooden door, through which I clambered to deliver my brothers’ demand: Prince Vincent or all-out battle.
Chapter 25
Char, Under Dark Skies
Once Neill was taken off by the Advanced Tutor for the Protectors, I was alone with the Abbot. The Prince’s blonde knight-marshal had been sent off to organize her knights as best as she could, and the Quartermaster went to oversee more of the defenses, leaving us alone.
“Well, I don’t know how you did it, Nefrette,” the Abbot said with a pained hitch to his voice.
“Sire?” I asked, keeping my face as neutral as possible, wondering how I had looked when I had been hypnotized.
The Abbot gave me a hard look. He suspected I was lying. “You really don’t remember anything?” he said.
“Sire?” I asked again. “Remember what?”
“Interesting. The meditation must be more powerful than I thought…” the Abbot tapped his fingers against his walking staff, before pointing towards the center of the courtyard. “There, now. Clear a space.”
I did as I was told, telling the monks, students, and knights to make way for the Abbot, as Ansall sent others to collect the other Mage students like me, and gather items such as an iron fire-bracket, wood, incense, candles, and oils. During the hubbub and commotion, I had a brief moment of respite, into which I reached out to the Crimso
n Red, my friend.
Paxala? Pax… Can you hear me? I knelt down as if I were re-lacing my leather boots. I didn’t want anyone to see what I was doing or bring even more of the Abbot’s suspicions on my head.
“Paxala can always hear you,” the dragon said, making me wonder just how deep this connection between us was going. “Unless your mind becomes clouded by the old man.”
She must mean the Abbot, I thought. Maybe that was why she hadn’t come to the monastery searching for me sooner, because she could sense that something strange was happening to my thoughts?
“Paxala?” I whispered under my breath, at the same time as I thought at her. “We cannot get away from the monastery, not if we want to keep everyone safe right now. But there is another that I need you to help. The monk in the feeding chamber, Neill’s friend called Jodreth.”
“The funny monk? Yes, I know him. He left fish for me at the beach before,” Paxala said. “I can smell him, you know. He still breathes, in the rocks underneath the chamber, but he is damaged.”
“Hurt?” I said out loud in alarm, but luckily the chaos of the preparations drowned out my alarm. “Please go to him. Carry him away in your claws back to your cave. Keep him safe, if you can,” I whispered again. “And Pax…?” I added. “Please, please be careful. If Zaxx sees you or smells you or senses you then I won’t be able to protect you.”
My mind suddenly shifted, like an echo or the almost-recollection of a memory, and I realized that it was Paxala, the dragon. I was sensing how she rose from her cave and plunged through her own small waterfall to bound over the lake. I could almost feel a sort of echo of her movements and feelings, if I reached out towards her…
Dragon God (The First Dragon Rider Book 1) Page 23
