Dream of Dragons

by Alex Alcasid

  The king and queen were busy planning with the advisers on what to do and how to carry it out without letting the public fall to panic and chaos. Rumors were already spreading in the market place about a war between Aldoran in the west and Sagna in the east. Merchant captains hoping to make quick money have been spreading lies to scare the commoners. If the public was scared enough to run away from the possibility of war, they would sell their possessions and pay big for the chance at passage to a safer country. The Spymaster was doing his best to quell the rumors, but with Isran doing the Warmaster’s duties at the same time, his plans were falling apart. And the king and queen haven’t been seen in public since Gaturr’s pelt was delivered. All things considered, Loren decided she could take a stroll through Markholme to show the people that the royal family were not scared, they were just busy.

  The stables stood just inside the gates of the castle grounds. It had a circle of ground — tamped down flat by horse’s hooves — where the horses owned by the royal family were brought out for exercise every morning. Inside where a dozen stalls, but not all occupied. Queen Katarina did love animals, but she would rather have them free and roaming around. While the Beastmen looked down on ferals, they appreciated the Queen’s reluctance to keep animals in captivity. Loren approached a stall that held a young chestnut colt. The horse trotted up to the gate of his stall and stuck his tongue out through the bars.

  Loren chuckled and flicked the horse’s tongue with her finger. “Wind! Aww, I missed you too. Do you want to go for a run?”

  Wind lifted his head and neighed, excited at the idea. He pranced about in his cell for a while before coming up to the doors. Loren let him out, and the horse followed the princess patiently while she collected her saddle and reins. A human stablehand approached Loren, bowing low once he got close.

  “My lady, please let me help you.” He said, stuttering slightly. Loren noticed he was young, and very muscled from labor. The stable hand stared at the floor and kept his gaze away from Loren.

  “It’s quite alright, sir.” Loren replied, expertly saddling Wind by herself. “I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind me asking… But are you new here?”

  The stable hand straightened up, startled. “Yes, my lady. I just started this morning. How did you know?”

  Loren smiled. “Because I always saddle Wind on my own. Stable Master Varuch taught me how to care for the horses since I was young, and Wind’s a picky colt.”

  “I’m sorry my lady, I didn’t know!” The stable hand said, bowing low.

  “Uh… Please don’t do that, you really don’t have to. Please, just call me Loren. What’s your name?”

  “Arion, my lady.” The stable hand replied, stuttering.

  Loren chuckled. “Arion? That’s a lovely name, but strange. Are you from Aldoran?”

  Arion shook his head. He looked nervous, and rubbed at his wrist. It was bandaged with a cloth. “My apologies, my lady, I am not. I hail from the east. The far east.”

  “The Eastern Shores, perhaps?” Loren said after a while. It was the farthest eastern point on the map she had studied.

  Arion breathed a sigh of relief and finally smiled. “Yes, my lady. Are you sure you don’t need help with your horse?”

  Wind nickered and playfully chomped at Arion’s short black hair. The stable hand reeled back in surprise while Loren chuckled. “I’m fine, Arion. Thank you for the offer.” The princess smiled and mounted Wind easily, swinging a leg over and putting her feet in the stirrups. She flicked the reins and waved at Arion as she led Wind past the castle gates and down the path to Markholme.

  Arion watched the princess go, his small smile fading. The dark markings hidden under his bandage began to burn his skin.

  The ride down to Markholme was short, as the castle was not very far from the city proper. Loren easily galloped down streets paved with flagstones in the Gold District, where the nobility and rich merchants lived. She passed hat shops and boutiques, artisanal bakeries, jewelry stores, and well-kept taverns. Nobles wearing velvet and furs smiled and nodded as the princess passed them, a blaze of royal blue and gold down the streets.

  The Steel District held craftsmen and men of industry. The metal on metal clang of blacksmith’s hammers on steel rang all throughout the day, and the air was heated from the glow of their forges. The best blacksmiths were commissioned by the King for weapons and armor, and they found it a great honor for their steel to be chosen. Occasionally, a creative apprentice would ride up to the castle and present his or her latest work, usually a helm shaped like a beast or a shield emblazoned with the royal sigil, and compete for the praise of the royal family alongside a woodcarver and leatherworker.

  Past the Steel District was the Stone District, that housed majority of the population of Markholme. The streets were less tidy compared to the Gold District, but Queen Katarina had been focusing on renovating the area over the past years.

  Loren had to slow Wind down to a trot, then to a fast walk the closer she got to the marketplace. The crowd was thick towards noon, and Loren saw the masts of trade ships were moving into the dock from the other side of the high walls. Commoners clambered out of the way of the princess’s horse, muttering curses under their breath at having to move. Stammered apologies floated up once they saw who sat atop the colt.

  Merchants began to call loudly, waving at Loren, once the news began to spread that their princess had come down to the market place. Tanned men wrapped in the silk garments of Kespia offered bales of silk, ten gold coins a bale but half off for the princess. A lion Beastman waved a chicken at Loren, stating it was five gold coins only and comes with two free eggs. And for only two extra coins, he would throw in a rasher of bacon.

  Loren dismounted from her horse and walked through the crowded marketplace, carefully leading Wind by the reins. She smiled, nodded, and gently refused the merchant's offers as they came. There were a variety of different stalls, all propped up together till there was little elbow room. Makeshift tents of scrap fabric and sail cloth held up by wooden sticks shielded freshly butchered meats from the sun. Merchants hawked their fresh produce from open topped crates, some of them still in the wagon.

  Traders from all over the world came to market at Markholme, and it showed. Men and women bundled in several layers of Kespian silk showed off cases of sand-smoothed jewels. The Beastmen from Rhodia nearby offered produce, hand-woven baskets and pottery, and traditional Beastman trinkets. Loren smiled, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling marketplace, and was about to explore the market closer to the city gates to look for more representatives of other countries, when she froze.

  Towards the far end of the market was a covered wagon. It bore the red and black colors of Sagna. The rearing twin lionesses of the Sagnian sigil were burned into the wood. A single man, wrinkled with age, sat alone behind a rug laid out on the ground. Resting on the rug were an assortment of weapons: everything from long swords to tridents and spiked maces.

  Loren approached the man. “Excuse me sir. Are these what you’ve brought to market?”

  “Yes, girl.” The old man coughed. “Sagnian steel, best of the best, forged with fire from Mount Volknar itself.”

  Loren picked up a longsword and angled the blade to the light. There was a sheen to it, and a strange but beautiful curve along its back. It was perfect, save for the craftsman’s mark etched into the hilt. It was scored away as if to erase it from the steel. “Good sir, what happened to this blade?” Loren asked.

  “Ah, you have a good eye girl, to have spotted that.” The man coughed again. He shifted his arm underneath the black sheet he wore as a cloak. “I’ll tell you something girl, come closer.”

  Loren hesitated a beat, keeping in mind what a certain Sagnian had done just recently. She put the sword back on the rug and leaned closer, making sure the other weapons were out of the man’s reach.

  “I’ve been banished from Sagna, did you know?” the man started, rasping slightly. “I was a court blacksmith, p
ounded away at iron and steel in a chamber within the volcano itself, in a cavern that glowed with the fire from below. I worked the hammer and anvil for more than forty years, faithfully, mind you, till good king Aerius died.

  Then his little magic spawn decided she didn’t like my work. I didn’t understand, I was the court blacksmith, I made the ceremonial swords for her father and grandfather. I made the twin curved swords her sister wields! But no, Queen Haedria didn’t like the sight of me. Burned my arm clean off with her magic, etched out my mark from all the swords I hadn’t sold, and kicked me out of the kingdom.” The old man moved aside his sheet to show the charred stump of his arm, blacked badly at the end of his elbow and bound tight with strips of cloth.

  He continued in a voice just louder than a whisper, without giving Loren a second to comment. “I love Sagna, girl. It’s my home, my father’s home, and his father before him, working the forge and anvil ever since my family existed. And the new queen, ohh, the new queen. Girl, if you know what’s good for you, you stay away from her. She might burn off your pretty young face just for looking at her sideways. Rumors are she’d burn you to ash for even thinking of looking at her sister. Mark my words girl, the only business you should have with Sagna is…” he trailed off.

  “Is what, sir? Is what?” Loren pressed, eager and curious.

  “Is to buy my weapons.” The old man said, leaning back with a chuckle. “Sagnian steel! Best of the best, girl!”

  Loren stared blankly at the old blacksmith for a couple of seconds, before sighing and turning away. She felt her time was wasted with this man’s tall tale, and opted to walk away without a word. But the old man began to cough loudly from chuckling so hard.

  “Don’t walk away now, girl!” The old man said, waving Loren back to his rug with his good hand. “Everything I said is true. Ask the blacksmiths up at Steel to check over my swords, they’ll recognize the handiwork, since the mark is useless. And do buy something, an old man needs to eat!” he coughed again, and Loren couldn’t help but turn back.

  She crouched by the rug again, worry in her eyes. “Are you alright, sir? You’re coughing so hard. Are you sick?”

  The old man sighed. “Afraid so, girl. Aldoran is cold, much colder than Sagna. I’m not used to this sea breeze and salt smell. Cold’s seeped into my bones, salt and sand in my lungs.” He coughed. “I was better off with the smoke and soot of the forge, I tell you.”

  Loren’s brows knitted in concern, but she had an idea. “Alright, sir. I’ll buy all your weapons, and bring you up to the castle.”

  “To the castle? What for? Am I to be arrested?” he squinted up at her. “Are you a noblewoman?”

  “No, not at all sir.” Loren smiled, a bit of mischievousness in her voice. “I’m not a noblewoman sir, but I am the princess. And you’ll be escorted up to the castle, cleaned up and given to the Spymaster. He’s been tinkering with things recently, scraps of metal and wire, and has made something resembling a metal hand. I imagine you would be able to make good use of it.”

  For once, the man was speechless. His mouth opened and closed, and only making short splutters. Loren giggled and stood to help the old man to his feet. She waved over a guard that was stationed by the gates of the city, and told him of her plans with the old man. As the guard took the old blacksmith by the remains of his arm to lead him up the beaten path through the market and up to the Stone District, Loren handed him her coin pouch, full of gold coins and more than enough to pay for all his wares.

  The old man skipped up the path with the guard, while Loren waved over another one to help gather the blacksmith’s weapons. The princess asked that the weapons be brought up to her chambers. They truly were made with wonderful care and craftsmanship. Loren thought she’d take a closer look at them later and decide which ones she would practice with in the future.

  Loren twitched Wind’s reins again and continued to lead him around the market. Resting between a stall that sold hunting arrows and fletching and a Kespian silk tent selling jars of preserved desert fruit, was a small tent that sold books. Rows and rows of books crammed onto narrow bookshelves that bent the wood in the middle to the point of sagging were side by side racks of tightly rolled parchment.

  A low dark wood desk held ink pots of various colors, some clean and stoppered, others used and with ink staining the glass. An assortment of different brightly colored feathers for use as quill pens were laid side by side, each sharpened at the tip and ready for use. There were heavy tomes that looked like spell books, held closed with clasps and locks that had rusted shut over the years. Sitting behind the desk and scribbling away at a piece of parchment was the merchant of the stall: a young Kespian scholar, wearing several layers of desert silks and an Aldoran fur cloak.

  He didn’t look thin or wiry, as Loren had come to associate with scholars. This man’s frame boasted lean muscle, especially at the arms, possibly from training with the sword instead of the pen. As he wrote and the pen slid and scratched across the paper, his silks shifted and Loren saw the curl of dark mage markings flowing from his wrist to his upper arm. It marked the scholar as one of the mages from the Kespian Academy of Magic. But they rarely ever left the Academy, let alone the desert.

  Loren’s curiosity got the better of her. She approached the desk, feigned interest in a bright blue quill for a few seconds, before talking to the merchant. “Excuse me, but are you from the Academy?” she asked bluntly. After the Sagnian blacksmith, she was tired of roundabout conversations.

  The scholar looked up, and patiently put down his quill pen. He twined his fingers, and looked up at Loren with every bit of the scorn and barely concealed distaste of a librarian. “If it is not apparent by my attire, markings, and wares, yes. Yes, I am from the Academy of Magic. Did you want to buy something?”

  Loren frowned. The day was just getting better. “I might. Please tell me about these books, there are quite a lot you have on sale.”

  The scholar sniffed derisively. He gestured towards one of the sagging bookshelves. “These are mostly for history, some empty books for record keeping purposes, the odd legends and fairy tale collections here and there.” He gestured to another bookshelf, equally sagging from the weight of the books. “This one is full of collected bard’s songs, more recorded history, a few spell books allowed to be in circulation by the Academy, and stories.”

  “Stories?”

  “Yes, fanciful but false tales. A waste of time, if you ask me.”

  “Fair enough. What’s your name?”

  “I’ll tell you if you buy a book.”

  Loren sighed, and her hand went to her side, reaching for her coin purse. She panicked for a moment, thinking that the coin purse had been snatched away by a thief from the press of the crowd. Then she remembered that she had given the entire thing to the old blacksmith. She sighed deeper. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money with me right now.”

  The scholar leaned back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest. “Then I won’t tell you my name. Honestly, do you not have a better use for your time than to ask questions with simple answers? You are disrupting my research. If you won’t buy anything, I would suggest you be off.”

  Wind, sensing his master’s distaste at this man, leaned his big head into the stall and neighed loudly in the scholar’s face, horse spit flying into his hair, silks, and onto his parchment. The saliva left large wet blobs on the parchment that begun to smudge the ink. Loren ran off laughing, Wind trotting behind her, and left the scholar cursing loudly in the Kespian tongue.

  Chapter Four

  Loren continued through the market, twitching Wind’s reins. The horse followed dutifully, clopping through puddles and whickering softly to let people know a horse was coming through. It wasn’t a rare sight to have a horse walk through the market, but it was inconvenient when the crowd grew too dense. Wind kept to his path, following the princess, when his big shoulder nudged someone in the back. The horse walked on, and Loren didn’t notice, until the princess w
as shoved roughly to the ground.

  Loren yelped, throwing her hands out to catch herself in the muddy ground. She looked up, trying to see what or who pushed her, and there was a young woman staring down at her. The woman was near the same age as Loren, dressed in old hunting furs many times darned and patched, and dirty brown hair tied back with twine. A short bow was slung over her shoulder.

  “What’s the matter with you?” the woman demanded. “Watch where you’re going and keep a better hold over your damn horse.”

  “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?” Loren shot back, getting to her feet. Heads turned to look. “Shoving people who did no wrong to you, are you crazy? Look, I’m sorry my horse bumped you or whatever it was that happened. No harm done. Alright?”

  The woman didn’t accept that apology. She stepped closer to Loren, and smiled. “No harm done? Do you know who I am? Girl, if you pull something like that outside, I’d have an arrow through that pretty face before you could blink.”

  Loren stared back at the woman, and laughed. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

  The woman scoffed. “No. Why would I?”

  A few of the people in the crowd began to snicker. A well-meaning old lady broke off from the crowd to signal a guard. Loren smiled patiently. “I’m the princess of this kingdom. Heir to the throne, and your future queen.”

  The young woman paled at that, and stood stunned for a few seconds, eyes wide with shock. She turned to run, but almost ran face first into the polished breastplate of a guard. The guard grabbed the woman by the arms, turning her towards the princess and holding her in a tight enough grip that she couldn’t get away.

  “Uh…I’m sorry for what I said?” the woman said awkwardly, wincing at the tight grip. “Maybe we could forget what happened, milady?”